


came the last night

by unniebee



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Horror, M/M, Past Character Death, Suicide, Supernatural Elements, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12146814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unniebee/pseuds/unniebee
Summary: Chanyeol inherits a huge, dilapidated, 200-year-old mansion, and decides to live there by himself while he restores it.  What could go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS
> 
> Special thanks to C for betaing and R for test-reading, and to everyone on Twitter who cheered me on while I slapped this hot mess together.

 

_Tuesday, September 3, 2019_

 

“Oh my God,” Chanyeol said, “this place is _amazing_.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s actually a shithole,” Amber replied, as she pulled the largest duffel bag out of the trunk and slung it over her shoulder.

Chanyeol reached past her and grabbed his massive cooler, heaving it out of the trunk. “But it’s an _amazing_ shithole. Seriously, are you _looking_ at this?” The manor house was unlike anything Chanyeol had ever seen in Korea, absolutely enormous, a sprawling, stone-brick Victorian monstrosity laid out over rambling, overgrown grounds like a sleeping giant. It looked like it should have been housing an entire school of children, possibly _magical_ children, or maybe the mutant kind.

Maybe it had, years ago. But as far as Chanyeol knew, this house hadn’t been occupied in close to a decade - not since his great-aunt had gone into a nursing home. His great-aunt was gone now, and for some reason, she’d chosen Chanyeol to inherit the house. Maybe she’d heard he worked as a home improvement contractor, Chanyeol didn’t know. He’d met the woman a grand total of three times in his life.

As they walked up the winding, crumbling brick driveway, lugging duffels and pulling rolling suitcases behind them, Chanyeol gave the front of the house a critical once-over. The second floor balcony was long and spacious, but sagging and rotted out in places. Several of the windows were broken or cracked. The tower on the west side appeared to be missing part of its roof, and as they carefully made their way up the front stairs, Chanyeol noted that the hardware on the ornate double doors was so rusty, he felt like he was getting tetanus just looking at it.

Covering his hands with his jacket sleeves, Chanyeol fumbled with the rusted lock for a good long minute before he managed to get the door open. He stepped over the threshold and gasped, eyes widening.

“Wow,” Chanyeol breathed, his note of awe trailing away into the serene stillness of the manor’s two-story, walnut-and-crimson formal foyer. The room was completely dominated by a grand, curved double staircase and an enormous, very dusty brass and crystal chandelier. Old cobwebs clung to intricately carved doorways, beyond which glimpses of large, open rooms filled with furniture covered in white sheets could be seen.

“This place,” Amber said, “is going to need a lot of work.”

It quickly became apparent that ‘a lot of work’ was a gross understatement. The manor was somehow even bigger on the inside than it appeared from the outside, and though it had probably once been surprisingly airy, the number of collapsed staircases, blocked-off doorways and clutter-filled rooms made it maze-like and difficult to navigate.

Still, it was almost impossible not to admire the place. Its framework was close to two hundred years old, but it seemed to have been kept in relatively decent repair for most of that time; the worst of the damage seemed to be more recent. The architecture was clearly Western, extremely rare for a building this old in Korea, but it had clear Asian influences as well, with geometric and floral patterns in the carved fretwork, screens in the place of some of the interior doors, and very classic Korean furniture. It was unique, and gorgeous, and the more Chanyeol and Amber explored, the more possibilities they saw.

“You could turn this place into a hotel,” Amber was saying, as they examined the fourth bedroom they’d found so far. “Or rent it out as a venue.” She opened the door to the balcony and stuck her head out, but didn’t dare to go out onto it for fear of the floor crumbling out from under her. “Shit, look at this _view_.”

“I need to hire a landscaping company,” Chanyeol thought out loud. The view over Amber’s shoulder was green and wild, rambling fields and overgrown gardens that butted up against lush woods.

Amber pulled the door closed carefully. “I thought you were excited about this?” she asked.

Chanyeol flashed her a smile. “I am! It’s just - I can see how much effort this place is going to take. Like, _specifically_ , I mean. I’m already drafting a budget in my head, I can’t help it.” He ran a finger across the fireplace mantle, not at all surprised when it came away brown. Where he had swiped through the layer of dust, the white-streaked green marble winked at him, as if to make promises about how beautiful it could be.

“Well, you have money and you have time,” Amber said cheerfully. “And... a project like this will be good for you.”

Pretending he didn’t see the way Amber’s expression softened and folded in on itself as she said that - pretending it didn’t make an unhappy pit open in his stomach - Chanyeol crossed the room and stuck his head into an open doorway. “I wonder what these spaces used to be,” he said, as a distraction. “There’s no way every bedroom had an attached bath back in 1820-whatever when this place was built, they must have been added afterwards.”

Amber leaned around his shoulder to look. “Makes it even easier to turn this place into a hotel!” she pointed out. Then she made a face. “You’re going to have to get rid of this godawful tile, though, it looks like the 70’s threw up in here.”

“I’d honestly love to do a historical restoration,” Chanyeol murmured, brushing away a cobweb that was threatening his hair. “Maybe not a hundred percent accurate to the way the house used to look, but at least using classic materials and styles, you know?”

Nodding sagely, Amber said, “People would pay through the nose to stay in a place like this, if it was restored. It’s basically a castle.” Her grin turned wicked. “Just imagine the cash rich parents would drop to have a birthday party for their little princess here. You could even have pony rides out on the grounds.”

The image was a cute one, even if Chanyeol knew Amber was thinking more about the money. “I think there actually was a stables attached,” he said. “On the bottom floor of the east wing? Looks like someone converted it into a garage at some point in the past century.” Amber’s eyes lit up, and Chanyeol laughed at her. “Tell you what, when I get this place all fixed up, you can come be manager.”

They kept exploring for another hour or so, exclaiming over each new discovery and brainstorming what they could make of it, before Amber’s alarm went off, reminding her that she needed to get going. She had an appointment to make later that night, and a two hour drive to get there.

“Maybe when this place is open to the public we could call it Princess Castle,” Chanyeol thought out loud, as he walked her to the door. “We could name each suite after a famous princess and decorate it according to that time period.” 

Amber laughed and pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Maybe if you stay here long enough, _your_ prince will finally come,” she joked. 

Chanyeol chuckled, but it wasn’t up to his usual standard. He wasn’t really in the market for a _prince_ at the moment, and Amber should know that, and it was a little frustrating that she insisted on pushing the issue. She meant well, but it was frustrating all the same.

“I’m gonna call and check on you every day, okay?” Amber said as she pulled away, her tone sobering. “Like, I know you know what you’re doing, but this place is really remote and, I don’t know. Don’t fall through the floor or anything.”

“I’ll keep my phone on me at all times,” Chanyeol promised. “Have a safe trip.”

Kissing his cheek, Amber let herself out the front door and left Chanyeol alone in his new home.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

As the only family members still living, Chanyeol and his sister Yura had gotten their great-aunt’s entire inheritance. Yura had gotten the investments and business ventures, the summer beach house, and the china collection; Chanyeol had gotten the manor. Looking out of the great room’s massive windows and watching the sun set over the trees, Chanyeol thought he might have gotten the better end of the deal.

If it had only been the manor itself, Chanyeol might not have been so excited about it, but in addition to the material possessions, his great-aunt’s substantial fortune had been split evenly between the siblings. The news of the inheritance had come as a shock, and Yura had immediately dragged Chanyeol to a professional finance manager, who had guided them both through paying off their debts and taxes and sinking the rest into investments. Chanyeol now had a salary that was twice what he used to make, automatically deposited into his spending account every two weeks. Like a paycheck, except he was paying himself, and the money came from investment returns alone. According to the advisor, the actual amount of the inheritance wouldn’t even need to be touched unless Chanyeol had to spend an enormous sum all at once. It was smart - Chanyeol didn’t have the first clue how to handle a huge, static amount of money, but he knew how to manage a salary.

For the first time in his life, Chanyeol had enough money to quit working, enough money to actually devote himself to a massive labor of love like the manor, and frankly, he was looking forward to it. He hadn’t really had a lot of personal successes in his life, so it would be nice to have a project he could call his own, something he could see through to the end.

The first order of business, before anything else, was to find at least one functional bathroom. Ten years of no use had done a number on the pipes, and once Chanyeol got the water turned on, the walls were filled with awkward, creepy groaning and creaking noises.

Several rooms on the first floor had been converted into a master bedroom suite around the time that his great-aunt had started having trouble with stairs, so Chanyeol worked on that bathroom first, guessing that it would be the least decrepit. He seemed to be right - though the pipes loudly protested and the water from the tap was so brown with rust it almost looked like blood, with a half an hour’s work he managed to get both the toilet and the sink in working order. The water from the tap tested safe when he dipped a test strip in it, but it tasted a little metallic and weird, so Chanyeol pulled out his filter pitcher and filled it up.

With drinking water and the ability to flush a toilet taken care of, Chanyeol turned next to the lights. Locating the fuse box in the cellar was a chore that took him far longer than it should have, and Chanyeol was pretty certain he saw at least eight different genuses of insects and possibly a rat. He added _call an exterminator_ to his mental list of Shit To Do and squinted at the faded labels on the fuses until he found the one for the kitchen and great room.

He’d had a professional electrician test all the wiring before he arrived, and the fuses that led to faulty or damaged wiring were taped off with neon pink duct tape, but still, Chanyeol held his breath as he flipped the switch. It would be just his luck that he would set the house on fire his first night.

All that happened, though, was the water pipes groaning at him.

Chanyeol patted the wall. “You’ll be fine,” he told the house. “I know it’s weird, but you’ll get used to having someone living here again.” The wall creaked at him, and Chanyeol chuckled and made his way back up the stairs.

“This place is probably a bitch to heat in the winter,” Chanyeol thought out loud. His deep voice echoed oddly in the stairwell. “I have a lot of work to do before autumn is over.” He added a mental note to check on the insulation situation in the attic and to get the floor heating units functional, and fumbled for the light switch in the foyer.

He found it, and flipped it. Overhead, the crystal chandelier flickered on, half of its candle-shaped bulbs burnt out, casting a warm, golden glow over the twin staircases.

“I need LED bulbs,” Chanyeol noted. “A _lot_ of them.” The electric bill for this house was probably astronomical; it would be worth the expense up front to install low-energy LEDs. They'd put less strain on the old wiring, and they lasted forever so it would save Chanyeol having to lower the chandelier every time a bulb burnt out. Counting the lighting fixtures in the foyer under his breath, Chanyeol moved into the great room.

Spotting something in his periphery, Chanyeol turned.

Huh.

In the corner of his eye, it had looked like there was a dark, streaky handprint on the wall by the doorway, but now that he was looking directly at it, there was nothing there.

“Must have been a trick of the light,” he muttered. There were a couple of evening songbirds fluttering around outside the windows, maybe one of them had flown by at just the right moment to cast an odd shadow on the wall.

Chanyeol finished his count of the light fixtures and noted the number in his notetaking app, then started opening what windows he could to air out some of the musty smell. The first floor windows had been replaced at some point, but they were still pretty old and sticky, and only about two of the half-dozen of them would open. But it let in a breeze and the sounds of birds chirping, so Chanyeol considered it a success and turned towards uncovering the furniture.

It was a big room, with a lot of furniture in it, and very quickly a large pile of white canvas dropcloths formed in the corner. Chanyeol distantly wondered where the laundry was - a house this big had to have one, if not more than one - as he pulled the dropcloth off the last lump in the room.

The lump was a chair, similar to the other armchairs in the room, but there was something sitting on the chair’s seat. Chanyeol prodded it.

A disembodied tiger’s head fell out. Chanyeol yelled and jumped back, but the head didn’t hit the ground. It lolled, staring at Chanyeol upside down with beady yellow eyes and a fanged, frozen snarl, hanging from the bundle on the chair.

His heart pounding, Chanyeol stared for a long moment. When nothing moved, he prodded it again, and carefully pulled open the bundle. It was a wadded up tiger-skin rug, and judging by the feel of the fur in his hands, it was a _real_ one.

Squatting down, Chanyeol gingerly picked up the head and cradled it in his palms. It glared at him balefully. “I wonder how old this is,” he muttered. Tiger-skin rugs were illegal to own now, right? Or were they just illegal to produce, and owning an old one that had been made before they were illegal was okay?

“Oh!” Suddenly realizing something, Chanyeol turned and looked over his shoulder. In the center of the room, between two ancient coffee tables, the floor was a little discolored. He’d noticed it earlier and thought that there must have been a rug there at some point, but it was a weird shape so he’d dismissed the notion.

Curious, Chanyeol carefully pulled the rug off the chair and took it over to the center of the room. Sure enough, it matched up almost exactly with the discoloration on the floor, silently snarling out towards the foyer. Not Chanyeol’s taste, but it was kind of cool to get a little glimpse of how the room looked decades ago.

The lights flickered.

Chanyeol froze, cocking his head and listening, but he didn’t hear the pop of a light bulb burning out, or the buzz of a bad wire, or the crackle of flame, so it was probably fine. Still, he turned off the great room’s lights on his way out the door, headed to the kitchen to get something that resembled dinner.

He hadn’t turned the gas on yet and he wasn’t certain he trusted the wiring enough to risk running the ancient microwave, so Chanyeol just stood at the counter and scarfed down some kimbap from the cooler he’d brought while making notes and plans with his phone. He had so many ideas, he was actually worried about losing them all if he didn’t jot them down.

The pipes groaned at him, the lights flickered, and more than once the normal creaking sounds of an old house settling jolted him out of his concentration, but Chanyeol didn’t really mind it. They were familiar sounds, and it helped to break up the quiet inside the deserted house.

By the time he was done eating, the sun was completely set and what little dusk-light was left was fading fast. Knowing he wasn’t going to get much done without light, Chanyeol went back down to the cellar - yeah, that was definitely a rat, he’d call the exterminator tomorrow - and found the fuse for the ground-floor master suite.

As the most recently-updated section of the house, the master suite actually had wall plugs, light switches, working air vents - not that he was going to risk turning on the heat until he checked it out, of course - and comparatively modern, if slightly ugly, furniture. There were musty but clean linens in the bathroom linen closet, and Chanyeol made up his great-aunt’s bed, tossed his own pillow onto it, and flopped.

He scrolled for a bit on his phone, checking his usual apps and sites. The house was really, really quiet, and the bed was larger than he was used to, and Chanyeol felt a familiar, unwanted emptiness creeping in.

Opening up his texting app, he scrolled down until he found the conversation he wanted. The last text was his own, sent a few weeks ago, just after he’d found out about his inheritance. _Hey, I know this is random, but do you mind if I call you?_ He’d be left on read, the little checkmark taunting him. Unsurprising, but it hurt anyway.

Chanyeol typed out another text. _I miss you. Please call me? I just want to go back to being friends, I promise._ His thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button, but he didn’t let it drop, reading his own text over and over.

Eventually, he read it so many times that it started to sound like pathetic nonsense, and he deleted the text without sending it. Pushing his own disgust at himself to the back of his mind, he pulled up a new document on his phone instead, and lost himself in making notes and plans about the manor until he fell asleep with his phone on his chest.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Just handling the basic stuff took Chanyeol three days.

He concentrated on the main living areas first - getting the plumbing cleared out, the electricity switched on, faulty wiring replaced. He scrubbed down the entire kitchen, a massive, open affair that had clearly been built at some point in the late 80’s by knocking down the walls of the original kitchen and expanding. He had groceries in the fridge and staples in the pantry, had confirmed that the stove did, in fact, work, and had purchased a new microwave when it became apparent that the one built into the wall did _not_ work.

The exterminator came and did a sweep of the areas Chanyeol had opened up so far; Chanyeol planned to call him back as he opened the rest of the house as well. Judging by the scraping, skritching noises in the walls, it would probably be a while before Chanyeol had completely removed any pest problems, but that was fine, Chanyeol wasn’t squeamish.

In the middle of the third night, Chanyeol was jerked awake by a horrible scream and the sound of shattering glass.

On his feet before he even fully awoke, Chanyeol stumbled out into the great room, through the foyer and out onto the front portico, and squinted out into the darkness. It was quite hard to tell, but there didn’t seem to be any movement, and there weren’t any cars in the driveway, either. The house was so far from the road, Chanyeol found it difficult to imagine any robber or intruder approaching without a car.

Seeing nothing, but still hearing the tinkle of falling glass shards, Chanyeol went back through the house, checking every room he could get to. He didn’t see anything, couldn’t figure out which window had broken - shit, this house was so fucking big, how was he supposed to figure out where the sound was even coming from?

Then, Chanyeol happened to look out of the breakfast-room windows, and saw that the glass ceiling of the conservatory was shattered.

“Oh my God,” Chanyeol breathed, and raced down the hall.

The conservatory was part solid, and the other part entirely glass, a half-dome that jutted out from the side of the house. It has been totally closed off from the rest of the house; Chanyeol had assumed that was because it let all the heat escape in the winter and had been planning to wait until spring to restore it. Now, he pounded on the boarded-up door, yelling, “Hey! Hey, is someone in there? Are you okay?”

No answer, but Chanyeol thought he heard a groan. Rationality temporarily flew, and Chanyeol took a step back, judged the boards, and kicked.

The first kick rebounded, but he felt the plywood crack. Rebalancing, Chanyeol kicked again, putting all his strength into his heel. It was hardly the first door he’d kicked down.

The plywood splintered. Chanyeol gave it one more kick, putting a fracture line right down the center, and then yanked the pieces back, bending the nails holding them in place until the opening was wide enough to squirm through.

Glass was everywhere, shining in the light of the crescent moon, and there was _so much blood._ Pooling on the floor, splattered across the windows, like something large and fleshy had just _exploded -_

Chanyeol blinked, and it was gone. No more blood, no more viscera, no more glass. The dome ceiling of the conservatory was whole, unbroken.

“What the fuck,” Chanyeol muttered. He blinked again, scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Something wet smeared across Chanyeol’s cheek.

His hands were bleeding.

It took him a moment to realize it. He flexed his fingers, feeling splinters moving inside the skin, and watched in confused fascination as a drop of blood fell to the floor. 

The house shuddered around him. Guessing that he was dizzy - had he lost that much blood already? - Chanyeol quickly leaned back against the wall and pressed his palms against his thighs, putting pressure on them to slow the bleeding.

“So that was a dream,” he said out loud. It _must_ have been a dream. Chanyeol had never had a dream that vivid in his life, and certainly not one that affected him so badly that it kept going as a waking nightmare, but there was literally no other explanation.

In the distance, Chanyeol vaguely heard the deep, resonant chime of the ancient grandfather clock in the library. _Bong. Bong._

“Two AM,” he muttered. “Great.” Exhausted, Chanyeol decided he would deal with all of this nonsense in the morning. Maybe _all_ of it was a dream, including his hands.

Chanyeol stumbled back to the master suite and faceplanted into bed.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

“And when I woke up, I was shirtless, and my favorite AC/DC t-shirt had been ripped into strips to bind my hands,” Chanyeol said.

Amber laughed in his ear, tinny over the shaky cell phone connection. _“You not only broke down a door in your sleep, you also dressed the wounds? And you don’t remember it?”_ Chanyeol huffed, and Amber whistled. _“Shit, boy, I think the solitude is getting to you.”_

“I don’t feel like I’m cracking up,” Chanyeol complained. He grimaced as he dug the tweezers into his skin, working on removing his third splinter. “I feel fine. The house is huge, but it’s got a ton of personality, you know? I don’t really feel like I’m alone.” He shifted the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Ahh, hell. I hate splinters.”

 _“You went back and checked the room in daylight, right?”_ Amber asked.

“Sure did. Nothing. I mean, the boarding was still splintered, and I could see the bloodstains on the floor from where I had bled, but no glass, no blood. I honestly dreamed the whole thing. Got it,” he crowed, dropping the wood shard on the kitchen counter. “That’s all of them. Remind me not to grab broken wood with my bare hands in the future.”

Amber snorted. _“Hey idiot, don’t grab broken wood with your bare hands in the future.”_

“Very funny.” Chanyeol pulled over his very large, professional first-aid kit and set to work cleaning and wrapping his hands in actual bandages this time. “The conservatory is gorgeous, though, I’m kind of glad I decided to open it. I think I’m going to work on cleaning it out today.” He glanced out of the east-facing windows. “It would be a really nice place to have my coffee in the mornings.”

 _“Yeol,”_ Amber said, _“I’m gonna come up there for a few hours tonight, okay?”_ Chanyeol blinked. _“Be prepared to feed me, because I don’t think anyone delivers takeout to the manor.”_

“No, they won’t even deliver mail,” Chanyeol agreed. “I have to go down to the town to get it. Amber, you don’t have to waste your Saturday night checking on me.”

_“Sure I do, and who said it was a waste? I’ll bring my tablet, we can catch you up on the dramas.”_

“I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to function without WiFi in this house,” Chanyeol grumbled as he tied off the bandages. Adjusting the phone between his shoulder and ear, he went over to the sink to wash the dried blood off his fingers. “It’s so far away from the road, running a line out here would be -”

The water that gushed from the tap was too dark, too thick.

“What the…” Chanyeol blinked, and brushed one finger through the flow. It was warm, and came away deep red on his finger.

_“Yeol? You okay?”_

Chanyeol rubbed his fingers together, frowning. It really looked like nothing so much as blood, but obviously that couldn’t be right. Was it just a trick of the light? “Yeah,” he said distantly, “I’m fine.” It was a bad idea, but Chanyeol lifted his finger and touched his tongue to it, just to see.

Slightly metallic, but familiarly so. Tap water. He looked down, and saw the water was clear on his hands, not dark, and the stream rushing from the tap was clear too.

“I need more coffee,” he muttered, and rinsed off his fingers.

Amber chuckled. _“Alright, you do that. I'll see you in a few hours, okay?”_

Chanyeol agreed, hung up, and went to start his coffee maker.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

The manor’s doorbell didn’t work, so Amber just yelled “Ding dong!” at the top of her lungs. Laughing, Chanyeol jogged across the house to let her in.

“I have a back door, you know,” Chanyeol said. “Actually, I have _four_ back doors. And two side doors. And probably a lot more doors that I just haven’t found yet, honestly.”

“Yeah,” Amber said as she stepped past him, “but how am I supposed to know which door you’re closest too?”

Chanyeol pulled the door closed. “Fair point,” he conceded.

Setting down her bag, Amber cocked her head. “You been swinging from the chandelier, Yeol?” she asked, sounding amused.

Following her gaze, Chanyeol’s brow creased. The crystal chandelier in the foyer was indeed swinging back and forth, and not just a little bit, either. Wide, slow, pendulous arcs, from right over the front door all the way up almost to where the two staircases met on the second floor.

“Huh. That’s odd.” Chanyeol took a few steps up the stairs, craning his neck to look for something that could have caused a weight that heavy to swing that far. “I’ll have to take a look at that later. C’mon, I was just about to start dinner.”

In the kitchen, they fell into the same patterns as when they lived together, back when they were both just out of university and broke, with Amber helping to prep and do dishes while Chanyeol cooked. Except now they were in this huge kitchen that had clearly been state-of-the-art thirty years ago, and Chanyeol had the money to buy really good ingredients.

“This steak is gorgeous,” Amber said as she started to slice the steak in question. “Seems almost a waste to use it on a stir-fry.”

“Cut it thicker, I’ll cook it slow,” Chanyeol replied absently, his attention on getting the pan set up and choosing his spices. “I bought an entire spice rack’s worth of stuff today, how is it that I still don’t have the right spices to use?” he grumbled. “I did _buy_ red pepper, didn’t I?”

Amber turned. “I saw it. I think it was over - shit!”

Chanyeol heard her trip before he saw it, and completely on instinct, he whipped around and reached out. Sharp pain sliced down his arm, and Amber stumbled against him, catching herself with hands fisted in his shirt as the chef’s knife hit the floor.

“Are you okay?” Chanyeol asked immediately.

“I think your kitchen floor is trying to kill me,” Amber said, her eyes full of humor as she glanced up. She pulled away and righted herself, and her gaze dropped. She gasped. “Yeol! Fuck!”

Chanyeol was already moving to put pressure on his arm. “I’m fine,” he said automatically, even though the warm flow of blood between his fingers was thicker than he’d expected, and it _hurt._ “I’ve had worse.”

“Shit, that looks _bad,_ ” Amber said worriedly. She took his elbow, clearly intending to lead him to the sink, but then stopped, her eyes on the floor. “Uh…”

Following her gaze, Chanyeol saw that the knife had somehow embedded in a chip in the tile floor handle-first, its blade aimed up at an angle, pointing right at them and dripping blood onto the tile.

His heart gave a funny little jolt. “Good thing I caught you,” he murmured. “You would have fallen right…” He didn’t finish the thought.

Bending, Amber very carefully wrapped her hand around the knife’s handle, and tugged gently until it came free. She dropped it in the sink. “I’m sorry, Yeol,” she said. “Come on, let’s clean you up.”

The cut was long, but it was shallow; from experience Chanyeol guessed that it wouldn’t need stitches. Amber wanted to take him into town to get it looked at, but Chanyeol insisted that he didn’t want to ruin their night together, so she just helped him to clean and wrap it, and then they put their lovely steak away and heated up some frozen dumplings instead.

They had every intention of watching dramas, but Chanyeol got caught up talking about everything he’d found so far in the house. He couldn’t help it - he was a social creature by nature, and until he started talking he didn’t realize how badly he’d missed having company.

“I’ve been thinking about the northeast tower all day,” Chanyeol said. “It’s right above the conservatory, so I’m thinking, maybe a loose brick or some shingles fell and made the crashing sound that woke me? I literally ran out if the room ninety-five percent of the way asleep, I probably just dreamed the rest, but the sound, I’m certain that was real.”

Amber popped another shrimp chip in her mouth. “Did you go up there to look?” she asked curiously.

“That’s just the thing!” Chanyeol said excitedly. “I can’t figure out how to get up there! I mean, there’s a bunch of rooms on the second floor that I haven’t really explored yet, and there’s a staircase on that side that’s too damaged to climb, but I’m pretty sure it goes to the second floor of the east wing, not up to the tower.” He grabbed her hand with his uninjured one. “Here, let me show you.”

Pulling Amber behind him, Chanyeol headed past the grand staircase, noting vaguely as he went that the chandelier was no longer swinging. “That tiger rug creeps me out,” Amber muttered, turning to look back at it before they rounded the corner. “Can’t you like, turn it the other way, at least? So it’s not staring at me the moment I walk in the door?”

“That’s the best part, though,” Chanyeol told her, and ignored her when she snorted. “Okay, so, there’s two towers, right? The west tower is above my great-aunt’s room, the room I’m staying in. There’s a little room off of the side of the bedroom that has a spiral staircase in it, but the stairs are damaged so I haven’t gone up there yet.” Reaching the door of the conservatory, he kicked at the remaining boarding until it opened wide enough for them to get through easily. “The west tower only goes up one floor anyway, but the _east_ tower -” He helped her pick her way around and over the debris in the room, pulling her under the glass dome ceiling and pointing up.

Amber looked where he was pointing. Above them, the tower stretched straight up, thrown into shadow by the streaks of sunset behind it. It was beautiful, but Chanyeol suspected it would be more beautiful at sunrise. He definitely had to get this room cleaned out so he could have his coffee in here.

“I see what you mean,” Amber said, taking a few steps to the side to get a better view. “If something fell off of that, it would land right on top of us in here.” She tapped her lip thoughtfully. “So what’s that, like, smaller tower thing, that’s attached to the main tower?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the staircase,” Chanyeol said. “It’s the same size and shape as the staircase room on the other tower, except, you know, taller.”

“So if the stairs are pretty much right above us… What room is up there? Those windows, right there?”

Chanyeol hummed. “Not sure. Wanna go figure it out?”

Amber grinned, reversed their grips so she was the one dragging him by the hand, and lead the way.

It took them a minute to suss out which room was directly above the conservatory, but after a few minutes of opening doors and looking out windows, they found it. It looked like a study - a large, formal, stuffy room that Chanyeol could see becoming the main office if he was ever to actually make this place into a hotel. Unlike the conservatory, this room was not boarded off, but judging by the dust and the date on the newspaper in the desk drawer, it had not been actively used for at least three decades.

“I can literally see the staircase tower from here,” Amber said, leaning her head on one of the windows. “It should be _right there._ ”

Chanyeol went back to the hall and looked. “All that’s over on this side of the wall is the stairwell that goes down to the garage,” he said as he returned. “It’s gotta be in here.”

They both looked to the built-in bookcase in the corner.

“I mean,” Amber said, “that’s almost too obvious?”

“The tower is obvious anyway,” Chanyeol pointed out.

“True.”

They examined the bookcase. It was a big, heavy thing in hand-carved hardwood, and it looked very much a part of the wall. The books on it were mostly quite old and looked somewhat arranged, like the bookcase had been intended for show rather than for actual use. It took a few minutes of pushing, tugging, sliding, and feeling along every possible surface, but then Chanyeol happened to grab the carved jade figurine of a Chinese dragon that was sitting in the corner of the top shelf. He intended to move it, to see if the latch was hidden behind it, but it turned in his hand like a vertical knob and the entire bookcase shifted.

“Hey,” he said, pleased. “That’s cool.” He set his hip against the shelves and pushed, and the bookcase swung open with a screeching groan of protest.

Wincing at the noise, Amber followed him into the tiny room that was revealed. “You need some WD-40 on those hinges,” she muttered.

“I wonder how long it’s been since this door was opened,” Chanyeol mused. The room beyond the bookcase was only just large enough to house a wrought-iron spiral staircase, exactly like the one attached to the west tower. That one had rusted completely through halfway up, but this one seemed surprisingly intact for how old it must be.

The tower had very thin, arrow-slit type windows, and the light of dusk that came through them was fading fast, so Chanyeol pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. Motioning for Amber to stay put, Chanyeol started up the stairs, carefully testing each step before he put his full weight on it. The staircase rocked disconcertingly under his feet, and Chanyeol noted a few places where he’d have to replace the bolts, but he got up to the third floor without incident and called Amber up after him.

They opened the door to the third floor into a library. Dressed in green and gold, it had cluttered, much more well-used bookcases, with a small fireplace and two very, very old-looking armchairs in the center.

“Oh,” Chanyeol breathed. “I think I’m in love.”

Amber laughed at him, but Chanyeol was barely listening. He took a careful step into the room. The hardwood floor was coated with a layer of dust, and it creaked underfoot, but it felt stable, so Chanyeol braved it and started poking around. The windows in this room were large enough that Chanyeol could mostly see, but he kept the flashlight on. 

He was literally afraid to touch the books on the shelves, which were so cracked and yellowed with age that Chanyeol thought they probably belonged in a museum, but he did test out one of the chairs. The upholstery was brittle, but the springs still held him, and it was surprisingly comfortable.

“Dude,” Amber said, “this book is almost two hundred years old.” Chanyeol looked up. “See? It’s signed. _To my beloved Lord._ Dated August 10th, 1832.” She carefully replaced the book on the shelf. “Has this tower seriously not been disturbed for two hundred years?”

“That doesn’t seem very likely,” Chanyeol said. “The secret door isn’t _that_ hard to find. Unless this house just… Wasn’t really lived in, before my great-aunt purchased it?” He ran a hand over the beautifully carved wood of the chair’s back. “That would be a shame.”

“C’mon,” Amber said, “let’s keep going up.”

After the library, Chanyeol was prepared for something very old, very dusty, and very awesome, and he was not disappointed.

The fourth floor was a bedroom. The fireplace mirrored the one in the library below - they probably shared a chimney - but this room had two tiny balconies, one on either side of the room, only just big enough for two people to stand next to each other. The center of the room was dominated by the most ostentatious four-poster bed Chanyeol had ever seen, shrouded in faded emerald green velvet.

The only other furniture was a small nightstand and a hand-painted, Chinese-style lacquered wardrobe armoire in the corner. Curious, Chanyeol tried to open the armoire, but the doors appeared to be stuck. Wary of breaking it, he gave up, and carefully tested the bed. The bed linens crackled under his hand.

“Shit,” Amber muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s cold as _fuck_ up here.”

It was a little bit chilly up here. Chanyeol eyed the windows, wondering how well they sealed after all these years. “You’re cold? Here.” He pulled off his hoodie and handed it to her. “Come on, I want to keep going.”

On the fifth floor landing, the door didn't open into a room. It opened out onto a terrace, crumbling brick pavers surrounded by an intricately carved wooden guard rail.

“Sick,” Amber said approvingly. “This is gorgeous.”

The east side of the railing had broken, rotted away where some of the bricks had crumbled out from under it. But the west side was in okay shape, and Chanyeol leaned on the railing, looking out over the sprawling slopes of the manor’s roof. “How am I supposed to decide where to drink my coffee when there's so many cool places to do it?” he grumbled. “I'll be eating in a different room every morning.”

“You poor baby.”

“I know, it's a hard life.” As Amber came over to lean next to him, Chanyeol pointed out over the roof. “Looks like a section of the west wing roof has collapsed. That'll need to get fixed ASAP.”

“What's even in the wings?” Amber asked. “Have you been in there yet?”

The railing shifted ominously, and Chanyeol pulled back, tugging Amber away before it collapsed under them. “Shit, I need to bolt this down. Or replace it. Probably replace it.” He lead Amber back towards the stairs. “I haven't yet, no. The bottom floor of the east wing is the garage, converted from the old stables. But the staircase to the second floor of the east wing is collapsed, and the entire west wing is blocked off.” He pointed over the railing at the front center of the house. “I'm also pretty sure there's rooms on the third and fourth floors there. See the round window on the peak? But I haven't figured out how to get up there yet.”

“Why the heck would anyone need this much house,” Amber asked incredulously as they closed the door behind them and continued up the stairs.

“Good question. As far as I can tell it's always been a residence, not a business, but I have no idea what the history is. I should find out,” Chanyeol mused. “I'd be really curious to see what - oh. Wow. Look at _this._ ”

The spiral staircase finally ended on the sixth floor, a trapdoor opening up into a small, round room barely over a meter in diameter. It was surrounded on all sides by narrow, filmy windows, one of which was shattered out.

Amber looked out though the missing window. “I need some Rapunzel hair for this,” she joked.

Leaning over her, Chanyeol looked down at the glass of the conservatory's dome. “Shit, this is _high,_ ” he said, and quickly pulled back.

Glancing at him, Amber leaned against the pitted brick walls. “What, you're not afraid of heights, are you?”

“Not usually.” Chanyeol rubbed his fingers over the glass of the window to his right, scraping off decades of grime. Underneath, it appeared that the window glass was etched. He wondered what the pattern was. “But this room is a little freaky, isn't it? It's so tiny, it feels like there's nothing holding you up.” With one hand on the wall to steady himself, he looked out the missing window again. “It's beautiful, though. It really is.”

“I agree,” Amber said, “but I'm gonna have to admire it more another time, because I have to pee. Where's the closest functioning bathroom in this maze?” 

Chanyeol gave her directions, as simple as he could manage considering it was most of the way across the house, and Amber saluted him and started down the stairs.

Curious, Chanyeol pulled his rag from his back pocket and started wiping down one window as best he could. Without using a cleaner, it didn't come totally clean, but he could at least tell that the glass was etched with some kind of artistic scene, not a repeating pattern.

“I'll have to look up how to restore etched glass,” he thought aloud, and turned to go back down the stairs.

The trapdoor was gone.

Dropping into a crouch, Chanyeol ran his hands over the wooden floor, carefully at first, and then more frantically. He couldn’t find the joints, he couldn’t even see where the trapdoor had been. “No, nonono,” Chanyeol muttered, pushing on each floorboard to try and figure out which one had the latch.

He felt a sharp twinge, and the bandage still around his arm began soaking through. He’d pulled his cut open again. Swearing under his breath, Chanyeol sat back and pulled the bandage open, intending to re-wrap it tighter. Some of his blood dripped as he did so, soaking into the wood floor.

A wave of dizziness and nausea suddenly swept over him, and Chanyeol stopped moving, breathing harshly. The room was spinning, dirty, bloody glass closing in around him. Paralyzed, Chanyeol screwed his eyes shut, but he could still feel the floor spinning under him. It took all his concentration to keep from puking.

“Yeol!”

Familiar hands landed on his shoulders, and Chanyeol gasped and opened his eyes. The trapdoor was open, and Amber was kneeling in front of him, looking panicked.

“Shit, why didn’t you call me?” Amber scolded, already re-wrapping his arm. “You’re bleeding all over the floor!”

“Don’t close the trapdoor,” Chanyeol murmured numbly. “You can’t open it from this side.”

Amber stopped and looked at him wide-eyed. “What the fuck?” she asked. “Why would anyone do that? That’s dangerous as shit.” Chanyeol didn’t answer her, still trying to get his nausea back under control. “Okay, let’s get out of here,” Amber said. “You okay to take the stairs?”

Chanyeol nodded, and Amber helped him as best she could on the narrow, rickety spiral staircase. She tried to get him to stop at the terrace and breathe, but Chanyeol determinedly kept going until they were back in the study on the second floor.

Once the bookcase swung closed behind them, Chanyeol felt a bit better, and he leaned against the cool, dusty marble of the fireplace to catch his breath. “Sorry,” he said. “I got kind of claustrophobic up there.”

“Seriously, why didn’t you call me? I was gone for almost ten minutes.”

What? “Ten minutes?” Chanyeol asked, confused. “It couldn’t have been more than two.”

Amber cupped his cheek in her hand, looking him over. The concern in her face, the worry, made guilt and embarrassment stab through Chanyeol’s stomach. “Yeol,” she said, “are you sure you’re okay? Did you have another panic attack?”

“I’m fine,” Chanyeol insisted, automatically and immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. I’ll be more careful, I promise.” Amber gave him a Look, and Chanyeol smiled at her, as best he could. “Come on, let’s go back downstairs and just watch some dumb dramas.”

He followed her down the stairs, holding carefully to the railing and trying to shake the feeling that the floor was still spinning.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Two episodes later, Chanyeol felt much more like himself, and very embarrassed for his outburst. Amber waved him off, pointing out that getting trapped in a tiny room six stories up _while losing blood_ would probably disorient anyone, and made him promise not to go back up there unless he took the trapdoor completely off its hinges first.

After Amber left, Chanyeol intended to go to bed. It was getting late, and since much of the house still didn’t have reliable lighting, Chanyeol had been pretty much rising and resting with the sun.

He _intended_ to go to bed, but he didn’t. There was no way he was going all the way back up to the sixth-floor tower room again, but the rest of the tower had piqued his curiosity. He put his phone on the charger, grabbed one of his lantern-style camping flashlights, and went upstairs to the second-floor study. In the silent house, the screech of the bookcase’s ancient, belaboured hinges was piercingly loud. “WD-40,” Chanyeol reminded himself, and started up the stairs.

The tower library was silent. Very carefully, Chanyeol opened the windows, inspecting each one with the flashlight before he attempted it. Other than the dead bugs and the occasional leaf, they were relatively clean, and honestly they were in shockingly good shape, considering they were probably original to the house.

It was full-dark now, the sky moonless but filled with stars, and the breeze and sounds of crickets made the room seem far more inviting. Chanyeol turned off his flashlight and leaned on the window sash, letting his eyes adjust until he could clearly see the Milky Way. The house was a sprawling dark shape below him.

Next summer, he decided, he would bring his sleeping bag up here. Take it all the way up to the fifth-floor terrace and sleep up there, out under the stars. That would be nice.

For now, though, he turned the flashlight lantern back on, and set it on the small table between the chairs. With the room dimly illuminated, he started to poke through the bookshelves curiously.

Some of the books were stuck to the shelves, and some were stuck to each other. Some weren't books at all, but scrolls, or even folios of loose paper. Much of it was illegible, most of it was faded.

There was a stack of larger, thick-paged, leather-bound books that were in slightly better shape, so Chanyeol took them over to the chairs to examine them more closely. They turned out to be antique textbooks - anatomy, botany, illustrated atlases, all of them in English. Because the books were larger, the pages were less faded, and Chanyeol skimmed through them delightedly.

There was a smaller book tucked in between the last two large ones, and Chanyeol carefully unstuck it from the bottom book in the stack and opened it.

It was a sketchbook. The pages were yellowed and crinkled with years of humidity, and the ink on the pages was faded, but the drawings were still discernible, and they seemed to be mostly of antique men’s fashions, from all over the world. Chanyeol paged through it, fascinated.

Several pages of late-Joseon period hanboks were followed immediately by several more pages dedicated to British dandies. The next spread appeared to be a study of a single Indian nobleman’s attire, the full-figure sketch in the center surrounded by detail sketches of shoes, jewelry, the pattern on the edge of his coat.

Each sketch was accompanied by notes scrawled in the margins. Peculiarly, the notes were in multiple languages - Korean, English, and Chinese. Chanyeol's knowledge of Chinese and English was extremely limited to begin with, but judging by the antiquated syntax of the Korean, he guessed he would have trouble with this even if he was fluent.

The old chair was starting to hurt his back, but Chanyeol wanted to keep going through the sketchbook. His great-aunt’s room seemed way too far away, though - down the stairs, down the hall, down _more_ stairs, and back through the maze to the other side of the house. There was a bedroom just below him, he could crash there?

Or maybe…

Chanyeol started up the stairs, instead of down.

The tower bedroom was quite dark, but when Chanyeol opened both balcony doors, it let in some starlight, lovely cricket chirping, and a very pleasant cross-breeze.

Setting his lantern on the nightstand, Chanyeol climbed into the bed and arranged himself until he was comfortable. Though musty, there was something really inviting about the room, particularly the bed, and Chanyeol mused aloud that he might have to move his things up here.

He ended up perusing the sketchbook until he fell asleep.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

As is sometimes the case with nightmares, Chanyeol became aware that he was dreaming before he woke up, before the nightmare even ended. Still running, straining to get through the seemingly endless galleries of the manor, his feet moving slower and slower even though he was pushing himself harder and harder, Chanyeol realized it was a dream.

He fought it, fought to wake up. The walls were dripping with blood, and he had the vague thought that if he slipped in it, the tiger would catch him; but even as he thought it he knew it was dream logic and his conscious mind grabbed for the nearest door instead of running.

The bookcase swung open, and Chanyeol stumbled into the tower library, the green Persian rug turned rusty brown with bloodstains. Why the fuck was there so much blood in this house? He shoved the door closed behind him and held it as the tiger slammed into it, roaring at him.

Chanyeol slipped, just as he had feared. He hit the ground on his knees, warm blood soaking through the legs of his pants, and the impact jolted him awake.

Heart pounding, Chanyeol stared at the shadowy green curtains above him, trying to focus on the sounds of crickets and sleepy pre-sunrise birds, trying to drag himself fully out of the nightmare. Shit. That _sucked._ His whole body was tingly, heavy, and warm, like the musty blankets he’d half kicked off were bloodsoaked and holding him down.

Groaning aloud just to hear his own voice, Chanyeol, with great effort, rolled onto his side.

Empty black eyes stared back at him.

Startling back so hard he nearly fell from the bed, Chanyeol stared, and blinked, and stared some more. There was a body in the bed with him - a man. Wide-eyed, black-haired, and bloodstained. His throat was sliced open, blood pooling onto the green sheets and turning them brown, just like in the dream.

“I’m still dreaming,” Chanyeol said out loud. His voice echoed off the old walls, mingling with the cheery noises of birds beginning to wake, but the body beside him didn’t disappear. Chanyeol forced himself to look away, to focus on the open balcony door and the first rays of sunrise he could just see beginning to peek over the trees.

When he looked back, the body was _still there._

Incredulous, Chanyeol reached out and pushed it. He expected his hand to go through it - he was hallucinating, he _had_ to be hallucinating - but to his horror, the body was solid under his hand, still warm. The man rolled under his touch, head lolling obscenely back, and a fresh gout of blood spouted from his neck, soaking Chanyeol’s hand.

Chanyeol screamed.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Sunday, September 8, 2019 ___

__  


In the full light of morning, sitting out on the slightly crumbling back patio stairs off of the first-floor master bedroom with a very large cup of coffee, Chanyeol replayed the morning in his mind.

After nearly five full minutes of panicking in the tower’s library, Chanyeol had screwed up his courage and gone back up to the bedroom, intending to call the police and describe the scene. When he’d gone back up, though, the body was gone, the sheets clean as if they had never been soaked in blood.

But it had felt real. _Really_ real. Terrifyingly real. He was still shaking; he’d had to put his coffee in a travel mug because he was too worried about spilling it if it was in a normal mug, and he kept jumping every time there was a stray noise in the creaky old house.

It was pretty certain, he thought, that the isolation and the general creepy state of the manor was having an effect on his mind. He was not new to stress nightmares, or even to the kind of waking hallucinations that came when a nightmare carried over into consciousness, but this was extreme even for him. His waking nightmare about the conservatory was not normal, his freakout in the tower was not normal, the way his eyes kept playing tricks on him was not normal. And hallucinating a dead body in the bed next to him was so far beyond _not normal_ that Chanyeol didn’t really have words for it.

Chanyeol had had a nervous breakdown before. Not all of the signs were the same, this time, but enough of them were that he was pretty certain he was heading in that direction again. His brain was screwing with him, and he needed to get it under control before he ended up in the hospital.

Again.

It had been years, and Chanyeol hadn’t thought about his breakdown recently. It was behind him, he’d thought. His situation wasn’t at all the same these days. He’d been totally broke, nearly friendless, completely directionless and just-dumped by his first boyfriend, a horrible, painful breakup that had completely blindsided him. None of those things were true right now.

Well… except the breakup. But this one hadn’t been as bad as the first one. Sure, he was still the one dumped - still the one left behind to pick up the pieces of his heart - but at least Minho had been honest with him, and relatively compassionate. He hadn’t cheated, and he hadn’t broken it off via screaming insults, which put him miles ahead of That Asshole Who Shall Not Be Named.

Chanyeol missed him. A _lot_. But Minho had wanted to leave, and Chanyeol wasn’t the kind of person to try and imprison someone in an unhappy relationship. If Chanyeol was going to keep him, he should have done more in the first place; any protestations he made were too little, too late.

He’d find his way alone.

Chanyeol pulled out his phone and opened a folder in his documents he hadn’t for a long time. He’d made notes, back then, lists of ways to cope and warning signs to look out for, lists of things that had triggered panic attacks in the past. Nerdy, sure, but writing it all down had helped, and it meant that he had the list to refer to now.

He was going to have to take much better care of himself. No more caffeine after noon, for one thing, and he’d probably need to start using white noise again to help ease his sleep. He should probably start working out again, that had been a big help the first time around too.

And he was going to be staying out of the northeast tower, at least for the time being. Until he felt more at ease in the house on a subconscious level, there was no need to antagonize himself further with heights, enclosed spaces, and shadowy rooms.

Chanyeol thought about the sketchbook. He’d left it on the bedside table when he bolted, and now he kind of wished he’d thought to grab it. It had captured his attention. It would be nice to peruse the sketchbook some more, but maybe it was a good thing he’d left it upstairs.

This morning, though, he was going to take control of his immediate space. He’d been eyeing some furniture online for a while, stuff that he’d always wanted but never had the money or space to purchase. A very modern, sleek bedroom set in whitewashed birch, a large, fluffy ivory sofa, one of those cool coffee tables where the top lifted up, a massive beanbag chair big enough for two adults to snuggle in it. Chanyeol ended up purchasing all of it and more on his phone, and selecting next-day delivery.

He was going to spend the day completely clearing out and replacing everything in the master suite. Honestly, he should have done that first, before anything else. He knew from experience that if he wanted to feel comfortable in a new place, he needed for it to feel like it was _his_.

As he got up and headed towards the kitchen to wash out his mug, Chanyeol seriously considered calling Amber. The need to talk about his nightmare, hallucination, whatever it was, was pretty strong. 

But she’d just had to pull him out of a panic attack the night before. The memory still made him cringe; he hated forcing others to deal with his own mental problems. She would probably insist that he get out of the manor, for his own sanity, or at the very least she would drop everything to come stay with him.

He wasn’t going to let her put her life on hold because he was having a little psychological issue, and he certainly wasn’t going to give up on the manor just yet, not when it was the only direction he had for his life. So, he decided it would be best if he kept this to himself, for now.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

After spending the entire day working on the bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room of the master suite, Chanyeol felt a whole lot better. He’d already scrubbed all three rooms down a few days prior, so he’d spent the day replacing door hardware, cleaning the windows, removing the existing furniture and rugs, and planning out how he was going to arrange his new stuff. Lunch was spent online-shopping for new sheets, new towels, new rugs, pillows and lampshades and art for the walls, and later in the afternoon he’d actually gotten out of the house completely, heading down to the nearby town to pick up paint and painting supplies.

He recognized that he was doing this kind of backwards - he should have painted _before_ buying all new furniture - but whatever. He had the means to do shit like this now, and after the wacky couple of days he’d had, spontaneously treating himself felt really damn good.

Chanyeol took his time at the hardware store, carefully considering his paint colors and spending a few minutes looking at fixtures while his paints were mixing. Again, he should have gotten samples and tested the colors before he bought whole cans, but whatever. He just wanted the dingy, stained walls to be bright and cheery as soon as possible. If he ended up hating the colors, he could always paint over them later.

On a whim, Chanyeol purchased a very nice pair of floor lamps, some new switch and outlet covers, and got a large pack of bright LED bulbs while he was at it. Excited with his finds and feeling the giddiness of seeing a project come together, Chanyeol bopped to the radio the entire way home.

Laden with paint cans and painting supplies, Chanyeol pushed open his front door, and froze.

Someone was climbing the stairs.

“Hey,” Chanyeol called, hurriedly putting down his load, “hey, what are you doing in my house?”

He received no answer. The man kept walking, trudging up the stairs slowly with his head hanging. As he went around the curve, Chanyeol caught a glimpse of his face - young, handsome, and scrunched up with tears.

Abruptly, Chanyeol noticed that he could see the faded pattern of the wallpaper through the man’s head. The realization stopped him in his tracks, eyes wide. This… wasn’t really happening, was it? That man, he wasn’t really there.

“Hey, look at me,” Chanyeol said again, but he was unsurprised when he got no response. The man was shaking his head, moving more and more haltingly, sobbing soundlessly. His motion was odd, like he was fighting against being pulled.

The man who wasn’t there stopped at the top of the stairs, leaning with both hands on the balcony that bridged between the two staircases and separated the foyer from the great room. He looked down, right where Chanyeol was standing, but he was looking through Chanyeol like he wasn’t there.

The chandelier above suddenly swung towards the balcony, and hung there over the man’s head, suspended. Chanyeol’s eyes widened more, and he stepped forward, wondering if he should run up the stairs, or if he should just get out and lock the door behind him. The man on the balcony reached forward as if to grab something, his expression twisted into a mass of fear and horror.

Both of his hands wrapped around something that wasn’t there, something Chanyeol couldn’t see, and he raised them up over his head and dropped them to his shoulders, as if he had put on an invisible necklace. Abruptly, and with horrible, nauseous clarity, Chanyeol realized what was about to happen.

The man started to climb over the balcony railing.

“No,” Chanyeol yelled, and bolted for the stairs. “Stop, stop, oh my God, _don’t!_ ” He took the stairs two at a time, using the railing to pull himself up as fast as possible, but he wasn’t fast enough. Chanyeol could see the man shaking his head, his lips forming around the word _no_ , but the man still jumped.

The chandelier swung out over the foyer. Making a choked noise, Chanyeol shut his eyes and turned his face away, partway up the stairs and helpless to do anything.

“It’s not real,” he said out loud, forcing himself to listen to the words as they bounced off the high ceiling. “It didn’t happen. It’s in your mind, Chanyeol, it’s _not real._ ”

But... why would he imagine this?

Chanyeol opened his eyes. Sure enough, the man was gone… but the chandelier was still swinging.

“Am I insane?” Chanyeol asked the empty room. Shaking, he started back down the stairs, keeping both hands on the railing to steady himself. “I don’t feel insane. Does an insane person _feel_ insane, though?”

As the grandfather clock in the library chimed half-past five, Chanyeol went under the chandelier and looked up. It was still swinging, and now that he was looking, there was a weird jerkiness to the movement, as if an extra pendulum was weighing it down oddly at the top of the curve.

“I’m going to be sick,” he said to no one, but it was somewhat nonsensical because the nausea was quickly being overcome by an odd, lightheaded dizziness. The chandelier lights flickered overhead, and Chanyeol dropped to one knee, pressing a palm to the hardwood floor to steady himself.

He heard a roar.

Terrified, Chanyeol looked up. Directly ahead of him, under the balcony and through the doorway to the great room, he saw still another young man, a _different_ one from the two he’d already seen, running towards him. The man managed to make it only a few steps before he stumbled forward, scrabbling for purchase against the wall next to the doorway and shrieking with terror as he was dragged backwards.

By a _tiger_.

Tunnel vision made Chanyeol’s perception stretch, the great room receding away from him. He heard a horrible ripping, squelching noise, and collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. He tried to force himself to breathe deeply, slowly, but he couldn’t do it.

As Chanyeol collapsed, he caught a glimpse of a man watching him from the balcony above, tall and black-eyed, with an open wound across his throat.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

A knock on the door startled Chanyeol awake, and immediately, his first thought was _holy fuck ouch._ Rolling over, he pushed himself up off the floor.

The floor of the foyer.

Where he was still lying, after he... collapsed?

The events of the evening came back to him in a rush. “Shit,” he breathed, and fumbled for his phone. 7:32 AM, and his phone was down to 6% battery.

He’d hyperventilated until he passed out on the foyer floor, and stayed there _all night._ What the _fuck._

There was another knock, and Chanyeol scrambled to get up, wincing as stiff joints protested. He was definitely going to be feeling that for a few days. Scrubbing his hand over his face, Chanyeol answered the door.

“Hi.” It was an older man, salt-and-pepper hair and a drab blue-grey uniform. “Delivery for a Mr. Park Chanyeol?”

The furniture! “Yeah, that’s me,” Chanyeol said, slightly groggy. “Sorry, I’m - not quite awake yet.”

“Take your time,” the man said, sounding amused. “Nice place.” He peeked past Chanyeol’s shoulder into the foyer. “You fixing it up?”

Giving his head a little shake to clear it, Chanyeol said, “Yeah, working on it. I’m gonna go check that you have a clear path back, okay? Gimme a minute.”

“Sure thing, boss. We’ll start unloading.” He headed towards the truck that was pulled up in front of the house, and Chanyeol let the door stand open as he turned back towards the foyer.

The chandelier was hanging still, the cans of paint were right where he left them, and the tiger rug stared at him sightlessly through the doorway. Chanyeol moved towards it warily, his mind showing him unhelpful flashes of the terrified young man he’d seen the night before, being dragged backwards.

The tiger skin didn’t move, of course. It was very dead. 

He ended up bundling the tiger skin up in a dropcloth and shutting it in the nearest closet.

All of the furniture that had previously been in the master suite had been removed yesterday, so Chanyeol went back out front and gave the delivery guys directions where to put things. “Just group all of it in the center of the rooms,” he said. “I still have to paint. I’ll move it when I’m done.”

In the bustle of the next hour, Chanyeol pretty much didn’t have a moment to consider what had happened to him. He directed traffic and answered questions as the delivery people brought in and assembled two rooms’ worth of furniture and accessories. But eventually they left, their big box truck rumbling away, and Chanyeol was once again left alone in a house that he was starting to think was literally driving him nuts.

He used the restroom, splashed water on his face, combed his hair, changed his clothes. Then, he made himself a cup of coffee, grabbed a protein bar, and sank into his new couch gratefully.

“Alright, Chanyeol,” he said very sternly to himself, “you can’t keep doing this. You’re seeing things. This waking nightmare business has got to stop.”

It was nonsensical, but saying it aloud like that made him feel a little better. Briefly, he considered calling Amber, but… If he told her he’d passed out, even without talking about the hallucination or whatever it had been, she’d not only drop everything, she’d probably physically _drag_ him out of the manor.

No. He would handle this himself. It was just exhaustion and stress, he’d be fine.

A good night’s sleep in a room he could really call his own would help immensely, right? Right. He had to get to work. Munching his breakfast, Chanyeol plotted his plan of attack, and then as soon as the food was gone, he plugged his phone in, turned on his music, and got to work.

Painting took up the entire day. He threw tarps over all his new furniture, then opened all the windows and started taping off the trim in the bedroom. By eleven, the bedroom had one coat of pretty, pale periwinkle blue on the walls, and Chanyeol moved into the sitting room to do the same with a sunny butter yellow.

He stopped around two to eat. The pipes in the walls groaned at him, the water in the tap flowed rusty red for a moment, and more than once a weird, unexplainable feeling of dread came over him. Chanyeol ignored it all as hard as he could, defiantly eating his ramen right there in the kitchen, just to show the his own overactive imagination who was boss.

As he headed back to the master suite, Chanyeol spotted the same red, smeared handprint on the wall of the great room, right where it had been the first night he was here. He bit his lip until it bled and kept moving, striding forward like a man possessed, and went back to painting as if he hadn’t seen anything unusual.

Chanyeol hadn’t heard the grandfather clock all day, since his music had been blasting, but right at half-past five his phone just so happened to be between songs, and Chanyeol heard the chime. His heart started to pound, a Pavlovian reaction, but he stayed where he was, resisting the urge to go out into the foyer and look up. There was no roaring tonight, and when he dared to glance out into the great room again, the handprint was gone.

By six, the second coat of paint was drying in both rooms, and Chanyeol was in the kitchen washing off his brushes. He wouldn’t be able to take the tape off the trim until the morning, after the paint had totally cured, but he was done enough that he could at least take the tarps off the furniture and sleep in his new bed tonight. It was a damn good day’s work, and Chanyeol was pretty proud of himself for it.

He ate dinner at his new coffee table, then spent a little time arranging the bedroom furniture as best he could when none of it could touch the walls. With his new silvery-grey sheets on his new uber-comfy memory foam mattress with his fluffy new pillows, with his new lamps with new LED bulbs lighting every corner of the room and his windows open to let in the breeze and air out the familiar smell of paint, Chanyeol felt safer and cozier than he had in a week. He shut all the doors, flopped into bed, and watched stupid YouTube videos on his phone until he fell asleep.

For once, he did not dream.

Refreshed and feeling a whole heck of a lot better about things, Chanyeol spent the next morning taking down the tape and carefully repainting all of the white trim in both rooms. After lunch, he replaced all of the outlet and switch covers in both rooms with new, clean, pristine ones, and then he arranged his furniture. Most of the accessories he had ordered had also arrived, so each room now had toss pillows, art on the walls, and bright, soft, coordinating area rugs in a modern, funky geometric designs. Everything looked so sleek, so colorful, so designer-coordinated that walking into the master suite felt like walking out of the past and into the future, but Chanyeol liked it that way. The rest of the house, he could restore to a historical state, but these rooms were _his_.

By midafternoon, both rooms were done, so Chanyeol decided he would take a walk around the grounds. It was a nice day, bordering on too warm, but the sun felt good and Chanyeol enjoyed exploring. There was so much space, overgrown but beautiful and full of potential, that Chanyeol ended up just brainstorming out loud all of the possible things he could do with the grounds. A gazebo, a tea garden, a hedge maze, a walking path? Maybe he’d take Amber’s suggestion and have pony rides out here - but he wasn’t about to turn the east wing garages back into stables, so he’d have to have a separate barn or stables built.

But he _could_ do that. He had the space, he had the money, he had the time. If he wanted to build a stables, he could build a goddamn stables. The thought made him giddy.

Smiling, and musing internally as to whether putting in a mini railroad to circle the grounds would be overkill, Chanyeol returned to the house.

There was a lovely, ceramic-tiled decorative pond out in the back, just in front of the deck in what had clearly used to be a manicured garden. It was dry of water, of course, because Chanyeol hadn’t turned on the water line that lead to it yet.

Except it wasn’t dry. It was _frozen_.

Ice filled the entire pond, cascading from the small fountain in the corner like a waterfall in a Russian winter, frozen completely solid mid-motion. The hot afternoon sunlight gleamed off of the ice, as if to taunt Chanyeol with how ludicrously impossible it was.

“No,” Chanyeol said out loud. “What the fuck, _stop that._ ” He closed his eyes tightly, making himself feel the late-summer sunlight sizzling on his bared shoulders, and then opened them again. The ice was still there. “What the _fuck._ ”

Determined to prove to his own brain that it wasn’t real, Chanyeol strode forward and knelt to put a hand on the ice, and motherfuck it was _cold_. He had to snatch his hand back.

That was when he realized that there, in the center of the pond, was a hole in the ice. A _human-shaped_ hole, as if the water had frozen around a man’s body, but then that man had simply disappeared. It was so detailed, Chanyeol could see individual fingers in the empty space with ice between them.

Chanyeol blinked. “Nope,” he decided. “Nope, nope, nope.” He turned his back on the pond and booked it for the house, skipping right over the great room and instead going directly into his sitting room. Sunny and modern in yellow, white, and pale green, the sitting room smelled like paint and felt like sanctuary.

Except he could still see the pond through the windows, man-shaped blank space and all.

His hands were still wet and cold from touching the ice. Distantly, Chanyeol heard the grandfather clock chime quarter after three.

“I need curtains,” Chanyeol said, and moved so he was sitting in the beanbag chair instead, his back to the windows.

His first instinct, as it often was, was to open his phone. He thumbed over to the messaging app and paused, his finger hovering over the list of conversations. Amber’s was at the top, of course.

He skipped it, and scrolled down instead to his conversation with Minho. _Hey, do you have time to talk?_ he typed, and sent it before he could think too much about it.

Immediately, he regretted it. Shit, how pathetic was he? But it was done, he couldn’t take it back, so he closed his phone and very determinedly marched to the kitchen to start cooking dinner.

He ended up making the steak stir-fry he and Amber had not finished cooking a few nights before, and this time, there were no knife mishaps. Since he’d started cooking much earlier than usual, he took his time, even going so far as to plate his meal prettily and take several shots of it for Instagram.

“I should be liveblogging this house project,” he thought out loud as he posted the best image. “People would love it.” And he considered the notion seriously as he ate, and even looked up a few articles online about how to get started blogging.

He did check his text conversation again. The message was read, but there was no answer.

Of course. Right. Chanyeol should have known, and he should just close his phone and forget about it.

_Let me know. Things are kind of crazy and I’d really like to hear your voice._

The text was sent before he could stop himself, and of course he regretted it, disgusted with himself for being so pathetic. He locked his phone before he could do anything else embarrassing, and went back to eating.

He was just finishing up the dishes when the grandfather clock bonged for half-past five, and Chanyeol, suddenly and with extreme clarity, realized that he’d only heard the chime once today - when the fountain had frozen.

As a matter of fact, the only time he’d heard it chime _at all_ was when some crazy shit was going down.

Suddenly, and with everything he was, Chanyeol just _had_ to know. Morbid, terrible curiosity pulled him from the kitchen into the great room, and through it into the foyer. And there, as he’d feared, was the man he’d seen before, hanging by his neck from the swinging chandelier. He was nearly solid - Chanyeol could only barely see the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through his body.

Holding down his nausea, and thankful that he was behind the body and couldn’t see the face, Chanyeol took a tentative step forward and reached up. If he stretched, he was just tall enough for his fingertips to brush the man’s bare feet. As the man swung, Chanyeol’s hand was pushed back, as if the feet had hit Chanyeol’s hand. But Chanyeol’s touch didn’t have any effect on the body’s swing, and his feet passed right through Chanyeol’s fingertips.

“Why would I hallucinate the same thing at the same time every night?” Chanyeol asked aloud. “And… Why would my hallucination be wearing _bell-bottoms?_ ”

If he was hallucinating the same thing as before, then the other man would be right behind him, wouldn’t he? The one in the great room, who was attacked by the tiger.

Chanyeol turned around, but there was nothing there. The tiger rug was still gone and there was no wide-eyed, terrified young man shrieking for help. But when he moved into the great room to make certain, he saw that the handprint was back on the wall. He forced himself to look at it, and reached out to touch it. The handprint was smaller than his own, long-fingered, and blood came off the wall onto his hand.

“Okay,” Chanyeol said quietly, staring at the blood on his fingers. He rubbed his fingers together, observing the way it smeared over his skin. “Okay then. That’s. That’s a thing that has happened.” He looked back at the foyer - no more body, but the chandelier was still swinging.

Chanyeol went to the library, which was through a wide doorway under the western staircase in the foyer. He hadn’t really studied this room yet, just sort of looked around, but he knew what was under the tallest tarp. He pulled the tarp off, not caring that he was getting someone else’s blood on it.

The grandfather clock was totally still. The pendulum wasn’t swinging, and the clock face was stopped at 6:02, despite the fact that he had _just_ heard it chime 5:30.

“Right, then,” Chanyeol said, feeling weirdly distant. “I think I need to go back up to the tower.”

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol started up the tower stairs around ten PM, a big thermos of coffee in one hand and a small duffel bag filled with snacks and supplies slung over his shoulder. He went right past the third-floor library and to the fourth-floor bedroom, shut the door behind him, and plopped down on the bed.

“Alright, tower,” he said. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Of course, nothing happened. Huffing, Chanyeol got comfy on the bed, propping himself upright against the headboard, and took a big swig of his coffee. He was not planning to sleep tonight. Instead, he pulled out his laptop and tethered it to his phone’s data connection, grumbling to himself about how inconvenient it was not to have WiFi in the house.

His phone chimed. Chanyeol blinked, then hurried to unlock it, his heart climbing up his throat. Was it Minho?

It _was_ \- but it wasn’t what Chanyeol wanted to hear. _Hey. Look, I’m sorry that things are crazy, but I really can’t call you right now. It isn’t a good idea. Maybe someday in the future we can reconnect, but for now, please don’t try to contact me. We need to be away from each other for a while. Good luck._

Shit. Reading the text over, Chanyeol pressed the side of his fist to his mouth, holding back his frustration. He knew exactly what was happening here. Minho had moved on, and he wanted Chanyeol to move on too, and he knew that Chanyeol would never be able to do so unless he enforced total radio silence.

Worse, Chanyeol knew that Minho was right. He was clingy on the best of days; right now he missed his ex so badly it ate away at his insides. Nothing would heal that except time and distance. Unfortunately, knowing that Minho was acting in Chanyeol’s own best interests even when Chanyeol couldn’t manage it for himself made it hurt all the more - because his reliance was part of why Minho had left him in the first place.

Well. That was that, then. Chanyeol deleted the message conversation entirely, and sat for a long moment, staring blankly at the ancient, ornate, unfamiliar bedroom around him.

He’d be fine. He’d gotten through this before, right? And he had a project to occupy him this time, one that might be important. He’d just focus on that.

Right.

Distracting himself, Chanyeol spent the next several hours looking for any information he could find about the house. Most of the articles actually on the Internet were about his great-aunt, since she’d been living there since before the Internet had been widely available. One of the articles, from the late 90’s, referred to the house as “Dragon Manor,” which Chanyeol had never seen before. He wondered if anyone had ever really called it that.

Searching for “Dragon Manor,” though, did get Chanyeol a few more results, including a mention on a shady-looking site called Haunted Korea that caused his pop-up blocker to beep at him in concern. The site had a very grainy, black-and-white photo that was still recognizably the manor, and a paragraph about a supposed long string of suicides and mysterious deaths going back in the manor’s history. _“One eye-witness,”_ the blurb claimed, _“reported no less than seven ghosts.”_

“Well,” Chanyeol muttered wryly, “I’ve seen at least three.” The site had no details at all on these supposed ghosts, who they were, or why the place was haunted. “Ugh, this is no help.”

After puttering around for a while and getting pretty much nowhere, Chanyeol thought to look for scans of old newspapers from the area. It took some clever use of search terms to find what he was looking for, but eventually he did stumble upon an archive project that had almost a hundred years’ worth of a nearby town’s local newspaper. Unfortunately, the articles were not indexed in any truly searchable way, so if Chanyeol wanted to find something, he was going to have to look through each and every one.

He ended up opening another tab and researching bell-bottoms to try and narrow down the date range. The pants the young man in the foyer had been wearing were very long, with a wide flare; they matched the description of “elephant bell” bell-bottoms, which according to the Internet were popular in the mid-to-late 70s.

So Chanyeol began going through the Sunday obituaries week after week, starting with 1976.

It took a long time, and was very boring, but Chanyeol sipped his coffee and ate his snacks and kept at it. If he could find proof that the man in the foyer had existed, he would know, once and for all, whether he was crazy.

Around quarter after one in the morning, Chanyeol flipped to the next week and immediately stopped. There, in a half-page section front and center of the obituaries, was the smiling face of the man he’d seen, right down to the fluffy mop of dark hair.

Chanyeol stared at it for a good long moment, disoriented. That was definitely the same young man he’d seen, though it was a little disconcerting to see him look so happy when all Chanyeol had seen was fear and anguish. He looked… young.

And he was young. His name was Kim Jongin, according to the newspaper, and he had been only twenty-five. The funeral service was listed at the manor’s address, but no other information was given.

He was real. The man he had seen - the ghost? - was _real._ How could Chanyeol have seen the face of a man who had died over forty years ago, unless what he’d seen was actually a ghost?

Or he was developing psychic powers.

Chanyeol was kind of hoping for the ghost explanation, though. The inside of his brain was messy enough already.

He noted down the date of passing - August 24th, 1978 - and scrolled back through the newspapers to the day after. Sure enough, the story had made the news. Chanyeol read it through carefully. Jongin had committed suicide by hanging himself from the chandelier, while the rest of his family had been preparing to eat dinner on the back patio. He’d left behind both parents and two older, married sisters and their families, all of whom seemed to be in complete shock. _“He was such a sweet, bright boy, always smiling,”_ his mother was quoted as saying. _“Why would he do something like this?”_

Closing his eyes, Chanyeol recalled the terror on the boy’s face as he’d climbed the stairs. “I’m not sure he actually _wanted_ to do it,” he murmured, and fuck, but _that_ was a disturbing notion. And with his family _right there…_ the patio was easily within yelling distance of the foyer, if you were loud enough.

The article also said something Chanyeol found very interesting - that Jongin was the third suicide in that house that century. Names and exact dates for the other two were not mentioned - only “early thirties” and “late sixties.”

Chanyeol saved a screenshot of the article, then moved back through the archives to 1966. He was in for a long night.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Some time later, Chanyeol startled awake, his laptop dark in his lap. He immediately cursed and reached for his phone to check the time - but then the reason _why_ he had awoken became clear.

A man was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands, and quietly sobbing his heart out. Chanyeol thought it was probably the same man he’d seen in this bedroom before, though it was a bit difficult to tell. He was wearing button-front trousers and a flouncy, untucked, half-unbuttoned shirt, and he was bigger than Chanyeol had realized, with long legs and broad palms that enveloped his face.

A ghost. An actual, un-living, not-breathing ghost sitting at the end of his bed. Or, actually, more likely that the bed was the ghost’s first, right?

Or he was insane, that was still a possibility. Could he find a way to prove it to himself, once and for all?

Carefully, Chanyeol set his laptop aside, and pulled out his phone. “Hey,” Chanyeol said. “Hey, can you hear me?”

The man showed absolutely no signs of noticing him.

Chanyeol opened his phone’s camera and started to record. The man didn’t appear on his screen, which was freaky, but Chanyeol kept recording anyway, just in case. “Hey,” he said again. “My name is Chanyeol. Can you see me?”

No response. Chanyeol reached out one hand and passed it through the man’s shoulder, then immediately yanked it back, shaking off his tingling fingers. “It’s cold,” he murmured aloud, for the camera’s benefit. “It feels like fog.”

The man raised his head, wiping tears off his face, and stared sightlessly at the floor for a long moment. Chanyeol leaned, looking into his face. It was definitely the man he’d seen in this bed the other night. Alive and in motion, Chanyeol was struck by how handsome he was, and how hopeless he looked.

“What happened to you?” Chanyeol asked softly.

Again, no answer. But after a moment, the man stood, and made his way over to the fireplace. He leaned on the mantle and looked up, staring at the bare wall above.

Chanyeol stood, and came over to stand next to him. They were about the same height, and looking into his face, Chanyeol guessed that they were about the same age, too. He looked so incredibly sad, Chanyeol ached to reach out, to touch him, reassure him.

“I’m sorry,” the man said. His voice echoed in the room, deep and raspy with tears.

“Why?” Chanyeol asked, though he knew he would get no answer. “ _Why_ are you sorry?”

After a long moment, the man sighed, and reached up. Long fingers wrapped around something that wasn’t there, lifted up slightly, then came down. He turned and crossed the room to the wardrobe.

The doors of the wardrobe opened, but they didn’t. Chanyeol saw them open, and yet they remained closed, and he couldn’t see inside. The man put whatever he was holding inside the wardrobe, and then he pushed it closed - and broke the handle off with a single, sharp movement.

Okay. “So I need to get that wardrobe open, clearly,” Chanyeol mused aloud.

That done, the man went back to the bed, and sat down on the other side from where Chanyeol had been sleeping. He stared out of the west-facing balcony, where the sun was beginning to rise. Setting his phone against his laptop such that the camera was recording the bed, Chanyeol came around the bed and sat next to the man. He looked… very solid, now. Almost real. When Chanyeol reached out, he could nearly feel the heat of the man’s body under his palm - but he still couldn’t touch.

Very faintly, Chanyeol heard the grandfather clock chime six.

The man sighed, and closed his eyes. “Forgive me for this,” he murmured, very quietly. “I don’t know what else to do.”

He reached into the drawer of the nightstand beside him, and pulled out an ornate silver straight razor, the kind men had used to shave before safety razors had been invented. The horrifying truth of what he was seeing, that this was the memory of a person who had really lived and really died, punched Chanyeol in the gut.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered.

“I have to,” the man replied.

Stunned, Chanyeol stared at him. Had he been heard, or was that a coincidence?

The man raised the razor to his neck. He held it there, for a long, long moment, breathing heavily and visibly screwing up his courage.

Then, he looked Chanyeol straight in the eye, and yanked his arm down.

“Fuck,” Chanyeol sobbed, covering his eyes so he didn’t have to see the rest. He _felt_ the impact as the body hit the bed, felt heat, felt weight. Without opening his eyes, he dropped his hand at his side, and it landed on a long, slim thigh, still warm.

Under his hand, the man twitched. A horrifying gurgle filled Chanyeol’s ears, and he burst into tears.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol did not eat breakfast that morning. Instead, he sat out on the back patio stairs, staring at the now-dry pond, and called Amber, who of course didn’t answer since it was fuckity-o’clock in the morning.

So he rambled at her voicemail. “I thought I was going insane,” he said, “but I’m not. The video recording didn’t capture anything but I saw him, I heard him, I saw the wardrobe and the drawer open, and _I felt the blood pooling on the sheets_ so I swear to _God,_ I am _not_ crazy.”

He took a deep breath. “The manor is haunted, and I’m going to find out why.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at the request of the readers, i am working on a drawing of the manor's floor plan. you can view a preview of the first floor [here](https://twitter.com/unnie_bee/status/911299109545443329).

 

_Wednesday, September 11, 2019_

 

Once the sun had completely risen, Chanyeol grabbed his entire toolbox and climbed the northeast tower.

The wardrobe was really old, really beautiful, and probably worth a lot of money, so Chanyeol did his best not to completely destroy it in the process of opening it. After trying half a dozen things, Chanyeol ended up wedging a flathead screwdriver in between the doors and hitting the end with a hammer, using it like a chisel to put downward pressure on the locking mechanism, which was rusted in place. Finally, the mechanism gave, and the doors swung open.

The smell of must and mold hit Chanyeol like a truck, and he coughed and took a step back. Covering his nose with the collar of his t-shirt, he flipped the hammer around in his hand and used the handle to sift through the wardrobe’s contents.

Unsurprisingly, most of it was clothes. Very, very old men’s clothes, yellowed and brittle with age. There appeared to be an equal mix of Joseon-style hanboks, antique Chinese changshan, and Western trousers and jackets, all in expensive fabrics with once-gorgeous, now-faded detailing.

Carefully, Chanyeol pushed all of the clothes to the side. Behind them, leaning against the back of the wardrobe, was a large gilt frame. Chanyeol gingerly pulled it free of the fabric and brought it over to the window so he could examine it.

It was a portrait, obviously an original. Chanyeol could see the raised brushstrokes of the paint. The subjects were an older man in a formal hanbok, seated, with a beautiful younger woman in a lacy, ornamented, pink-and-cream Western-style dress, her black hair curled artificially into ringlets and piled upon her head. Though the styles of clothes were in glaring contrast, their features were similar enough that Chanyeol could guess that the woman was the man’s daughter, or perhaps his niece.

“Huh,” Chanyeol murmured. “That’s… not what I expected.”

He looked the entire portrait over, but other than an indecipherable signature in the corner, there was no information about who the subjects were, or when it was painted. Without any further clues, there wasn’t much else to do. Chanyeol ended up bringing the portrait downstairs and leaving it leaning against the wall of his sitting room, a splash of antique in a sea of modern brightness.

At he settled the portrait against the wall, the grandfather clock in the library chimed quarter-to-nine. Chanyeol froze, and looked around, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.

The house was so large, he probably wouldn’t be able to find out before they faded away - but if the pattern of when the clock chimed held, then someone had just died, somewhere in the house. And they would probably do it again and again, unless Chanyeol found a way to stop it.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Though technically he was unemployed, Chanyeol had been thinking of restoring the house as his day job. So even though his mind was spinning with everything that had happened the night before, Chanyeol still spent the day going through the west wing of the house, which turned out to be beautifully appointed guest suites that had apparently not been in use since the mid-20th century. The first floor had a large billiards room with antique gaming tables, a lavish parlor with a full bar, and a smoking room; the second floor had three lovely guest suites and some small communal sitting areas. At the very end of the wing was a two-story library, the third and largest library Chanyeol had found in the house. As far as Chanyeol could tell, not a single book within it had been published after 1950.

The entire wing was half-destroyed with time, faded and crumbling and coated with a thick layer of dust, but the center of the wing was actually _charred_. Two of the guest rooms on the second floor, and part of the parlor on the first, were fully or partially burnt; wallpaper blackened, carpet seared away, large holes in the floorboards where the charred wood had collapsed. There was definitely a story there, but Chanyeol didn’t know if he’d ever find out what it was.

Chanyeol was jumpier than usual, more alert than usual, and for good reason. Now that he was really paying attention to it, the house seemed… _alive_. The sounds in the walls were constant, more than once he’d spotted movement in the corner of his eye, and he was almost completely certain that old china doll in the furthest guest room had turned its head to look at him.

It was a bit freaky, but Chanyeol was determined not to let it get to him, and so far, the house seemed relatively harmless. Noisy, sure, and definitely spooky, but it hadn’t actually tried to attack him in any way yet, and he didn’t see any other apparitions, nor did he hear the ominous chime of the grandfather clock at any point.

The west-wing staircase kept going up past the second floor, and Chanyeol, thinking that maybe he’d found the path up to the peak of the house, started climbing it.

Halfway between the second and third floors, the staircase gave out from under him.

With a yell, Chanyeol instinctively grabbed for the railing. It shifted, pulling out from the wall under his sudden weight, but it didn’t come free, and Chanyeol came to a dangling halt as half of the staircase collapsed to the floor below him. Acting quickly and on pure instinct, Chanyeol managed to kick sideways off the wall and landed on the lower part of the stairs on his butt, sliding painfully down several of them before he landed safely on the second-floor carpet.

Stunned and breathing heavily, he stared at the ceiling.

When he had enough air to sit up, Chanyeol became aware that his jeans were torn below the knee on the right side, and his leg had multiple long scrapes from where it had punched through the rotted wood. “Stupid,” he grumbled aloud. “Why the fuck didn’t you test the staircase first, Chanyeol, you know better than that.” Now he was going to have to haul himself halfway across the house on a bum leg. At least nothing was broken; it was just scraped up. Carefully, he rolled up his pants leg and prodded the wounds, examining them. They needed to be cleaned out.

Chanyeol hauled himself to his feet. “You win this round, staircase,” he said, “but I’ll be back.” Knowing that this particular staircase was now covered in wood debris between the first and second floors, Chanyeol went down the hall towards the main staircase instead.

It didn’t occur to him what time it was until he was halfway down the stairs, and he saw a figure approaching the foyer from the hall. Elephant-bell blue jeans and a paisley silk shirt. Fluffy, unkempt black hair, like he’d spent the last hour fisting his hands in it. Bare toes peeking out under the too-long hems of his pants.

Jongin. About to relive his death, again, as he had every afternoon for forty years.

“Hey,” Chanyeol said, hobbling further down the stairs. Shit, this was a terrible time to be injured. “Hey, man, can you hear me? Look at me, _please_ look at me.”

Heavens above, the fearful, despairing look in Jongin’s eyes was heartbreaking. Chanyeol moved faster, reaching forward as Jongin started to climb the stairs in front of him.

“Hey, stop. Jongin. Stop!” Jongin was right in front of him, now, and he looked nearly solid; Chanyeol suddenly _really_ didn’t want the ghost to walk through him. He threw his hands up in front of him. “Kim Jongin!”

To his utter shock, Jongin stopped, right there where he was, only one step below Chanyeol. Chanyeol’s hands were actually _inside_ his chest, and it felt every bit as cold and moist and icky as he’d expected it to. He quickly pulled them away.

“Jongin,” Chanyeol said again, “can you hear me? Do you see me?”

Blinking, Jongin looked up, but his eyes were unfocused, looking through Chanyeol. Abruptly, Chanyeol wondered if to Jongin, _Chanyeol_ was the ghost, a voice on the wind he could almost-not-quite hear. Was he seeing the house as it was forty years ago? Could he hear his family out on the back patio, talking and laughing and completely unaware of what he was about to do?

Jongin took a step forward, right into Chanyeol, and both of them shivered at the same time. He stopped, a confused crease appearing between his eyebrows.

Chanyeol scrambled back up a step so they weren’t occupying each other’s space anymore. “You don’t want to do this,” he said, raising his voice and trying to catch Jongin’s gaze. “You don’t, Jongin, I can see it in your eyes. You don’t want to die. Something’s doing this to you.”

Looking around, Jongin’s brow furrowed more. His tears were slowing in his confusion, and Chanyeol thought that was probably progress.

“Think about what you’re about to do,” Chanyeol urged, trying to picture himself as the angel on Jongin’s shoulder. He didn’t exactly have experience in this kind of thing. “Think about _why_ you are doing it. Do you really think killing yourself is a solution? Is it even something you want?”

It was very clear now that Jongin could hear Chanyeol, and maybe feel him, but he still couldn’t see him. Desperate for an idea, Chanyeol yanked the shoe off his injured foot and threw it at the far wall.

It rebounded with a thunk, and Jongin’s head whipped around, staring at the wall. He didn’t seem to see the shoe on the floor, but he’d definitely heard the noise. 

Okay. That was progress, too. Chanyeol banged his fist on the railing to get Jongin to turn back around, wide-eyed. “Kim Jongin, I am _here_. I am real, and I am talking to you. _Please_ speak to me.”

“I - ” Jongin, clearly confused, looked around. “Is someone…” Shaking his head, Jongin looked up at the chandelier. His eyes started to go out of focus again, and he lifted his foot to keep climbing the stairs.

Shit! “Jongin, listen to me. Something has control of your mind. It’s the house, I think. Or maybe it’s something in the house, I don’t know. But this isn’t you.” Jongin took another step, and another, and Chanyeol scrambled back, trying to stay in front of him, because occupying the same space as a ghost was freaky as heck. “I mean, I don’t _know_ that this isn’t you, I guess, but you don’t really look like you want to do this. You’re not acting like you’re in _control_ of this.” 

Jongin was still moving. Chanyeol reached the top of the stair and happened to look up - the chandelier was already pulled over the balcony and suspended impossibly in the air, and this time, Chanyeol could see the rope knotting itself around the central stem. “See! Look at that! Rope doesn’t move by itself! That’s not natural, come on, Jongin, _think!_ ” Panicked now, not knowing what else to do, Chanyeol reached for Jongin’s shoulders. “Kim Jongin, _your sisters don’t want you to die._ ”

Jongin stopped. Blinked. Stared, unfocused, at the chandelier.

The grandfather clock struck half-past five. As the pattern of chimes sounded, Jongin looked towards Chanyeol, and this time, his eyes focused on Chanyeol’s face.

The chandelier swung forward, like a giant hand had let it go, and very suddenly, Jongin gasped, pulling in a huge, desperate lungful of air, like he...

Like he hadn’t breathed in forty years.

He stumbled forward, and instinctively, Chanyeol reached out to catch him. His hands closed around sweat-soaked silk and warm flesh. Suddenly, he could _smell_ Jongin, faded cologne and hair product and skin, could feel him shake, could see the sweat on his brow -

Solid and real, Jongin collapsed into Chanyeol’s arms.

So relieved he was nearly dizzy with it, Chanyeol collapsed along with him, wincing as his still-bleeding leg flattened onto the dusty carpet. Jongin was _real_. Warm, and alive, and _heavy,_ clinging to Chanyeol like his life depended on it, and some protective instinct in Chanyeol’s heart went into overdrive. He ignored the pain and pulled the younger - older? - no, younger - man close, his heart pounding at the feeling of fingers clutching his t-shirt.

“What -” Shuddering, still gasping, Jongin shakily looked around. “What just… Who are…”

Chanyeol shushed him. “Breathe, Jongin. You’re safe.” His own words came out shaky and giddy, his pulse flying in his neck from the adrenaline drain. “My name is Chanyeol.”

A deep, involuntary shudder, and Jongin leaned back so he could see Chanyeol’s face, but he didn’t let go of Chanyeol’s shirt. “Who are you? Why are you in my house?” It wasn’t angry, wasn’t accusatory. Just confused.

Chanyeol took a deep breath. “What do you remember?”

“I was… going to dinner.” Jongin was shaking so hard, he could barely form words. Chanyeol pulled him closer and passed a hand over his hair, instinctively trying to soothe him. “I came down the hall and then…” He shook his head, furrowed his brow. “I can’t remember why I was…”

So he _hadn’t_ actually intended to kill himself. Chanyeol had suspected, but hearing him say it made it that much more disturbing.

His shakes were calming somewhat, and Jongin looked up, looked around. “This is my house, but… It looks wrong? Where’s my family?”

Oh boy. “Jongin, it’s, um…” Fuck. “There’s no easy way to say this. It’s September of 2019.”

Wide brown eyes stared up at him in shock. “What? No.”

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol said. “Jongin, you… You died.”

Confusion, and silence. Jongin’s grip on his shirt tightened.

“There’s something here,” Chanyeol said. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s… It’s something evil, I think. This house kills people.” He bit his lip. “Forty years ago, it killed you.”

“Forty…” Jongin shook his head. “You’re messing with me.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Chanyeol said. “Here, I can prove it.” He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and brought up the screenshot of the obituary which he had saved.

Jongin took the phone from him gingerly. “What kind of Star Trek space age wizardry is…” His eyes widened when he saw the screen. “...Oh.”

Chanyeol held him while he read, bracing himself. Sure enough, Jongin collapsed into tears, the phone dropping to the ground as he buried his face in Chanyeol’s shoulder.

It took Jongin a good ten minutes to cry himself out, and Chanyeol just waited, numbly trying not to imagine what could be going through Jongin’s mind. Eventually, Jongin’s tears quieted, and Chanyeol shifted them both, scooting around so he was leaning against the balcony railing and Jongin was cuddled into his side.

Jongin took a deep breath, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I knew there was something in this house,” he murmured. “I _knew_ it. The things I saw…” He shook his head. “But no one else saw them. I thought I was losing my mind.”

Chanyeol’s stomach jolted uneasily. “What did you see?”

“Blood?” Jongin said hesitantly. “So much blood, everywhere. From the taps, from the walls, soaked into the rugs. Once, I pulled a book off of a shelf and blood poured out like a fountain.”

“Jesus,” Chanyeol muttered.

“I saw bodies,” Jongin continued. “I saw death. I saw a man in robes get run over by nothing at all, out in front of the house. He was bleeding to death in the driveway and my sister walked right over his body like he wasn’t there.” He breathed a shuddering sigh. “I saw the man in my bathtub, God, I kept seeing him over and over again. Night after night, he drowned, and I couldn’t save him.”

Fuck, that sounded traumatizing. “The handprint in the great room…?”

Jongin looked up at him. “Yes! Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it’s not.”

Chanyeol exhaled, staring at their long shadows stretching in front of them, cast by the light of the setting sun coming through the front windows. Jongin’s shadow was as solid as his own and Chanyeol had never been so glad for the company of a stranger. “I thought I was going insane, too,” he admitted.

“I guess not,” Jongin said. “I almost wish we were, honestly.” He took a deep breath. “2019, huh? I wonder if my sisters are still alive.” He flashed Chanyeol an unhappy smile. “They’d be nearing seventy by now.”

“Maybe you could go find them?” Chanyeol asked.

But Jongin was staring ahead of himself, at nothing. “I… I don’t think I will get a chance,” he murmured. “Chanyeol… can you see that?”

“See what?” Chanyeol asked, looking where he was looking.

“That light.” Jongin pointed, but there was nothing there. “It’s so bright.”

“Jongin…?”

Tears were starting to drip down Jongin’s face again. “I guess I should have realized,” he said. “I should have known that my time was limited.” He looked up at Chanyeol again. “I’m going to go now, okay?”

 _Fuck._ “Do you have to?” Chanyeol asked, the idea tearing at his insides way more than it should have. Jongin was the first indication that he wasn’t insane, and moreover, that he wasn’t _alone,_ and Chanyeol didn’t want to let him go.

“I think… I think I do.” Jongin inhaled slowly, and exhaled heavily. “It’s better than being trapped, right? It’s better than reliving… _that…_ every night.”

His eyes widening, Chanyeol said, “You remember now?”

“Yeah.” Jongin got to his feet, and Chanyeol quickly did the same, ignoring the pain shooting up his injured leg. “I remember you trying to save me, I remember when you walked into the house, I remember the woman who came before you, your… aunt? But she never saw me.” He took a step forward, then looked back over his shoulder. “You’re right, Chanyeol. There’s something evil in this house. I was under some kind of spell, or a curse maybe, and you broke it when you called my name.”

He reached back, and Chanyeol reached forward and squeezed his hand. Jongin’s fingers were cold now, and Chanyeol’s hand kept closing, until it was clenched in a fist around nothing. He could see the wallpaper through Jongin’s head once more.

“I’m glad I got to meet you,” Chanyeol said desperately.

Jongin smiled, as bright as that lovely photo in his obituary. “Thank you, Chanyeol.”

As the last rays of sunlight disappeared from behind them, Jongin took a step forward, and faded.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Meeting Jongin changed everything for Chanyeol.

Amber called Chanyeol back later that night, concerned by the message he’d left her, and Chanyeol spilled everything to her. She was clearly skeptical, unsure of what to say to him, her worry dripping from her voice. Chanyeol hadn’t really expected her to believe him, but it still stung, knowing that she thought he was losing it, that he couldn’t handle getting dumped and being alone.

Still, as he was talking to her, telling her about the grandfather clock and the creepy doll watching him and the way that Jongin faded away, it became clear to him what he had to do.

He started that night, making a list on his phone of every weird thing that had happened to him, and the time and date that it happened, if he could remember it. Jongin’s scene had had the most obvious pattern - every night just before 5:30 PM - and it seemed like the scene in the tower played out every night as well, just before sunrise.

But so far, the thing with the conservatory glass breaking had only happened once, and the thing with the tiger had only happened once, and the thing with the pond had only happened once. He wasn’t sure if the thing with the knife in the kitchen was the house or just a fluke, but he wrote it down anyway.

He also added the chime of the grandfather clock that he’d heard that morning, and what Jongin told him he had seen - the man drowning in the bathtub on the second floor, the man who was flattened by something unseen out in front of the house. 

So far, every single apparition had been a young man. Did that mean something?

Jongin had said he’d seen the bathtub scene happen multiple times, night after night, which Chanyeol guessed meant late in the evening right before he would have gone to bed. But he hadn’t said which of the bedrooms was his, so Chanyeol picked one and hung out on the bed, keeping an eye on the bathroom doorway as he assembled a color-coded chart of the times, dates, and occurrences he’d witnessed so far. But nothing unusual happened - no splashing noises, no taps turning on by themselves, no sounds of struggle.

The grandfather clock chimed ten PM, and Chanyeol realized he’d probably missed it. Disappointed, but not deterred, he moved back to his own rooms.

It occurred to him that if he went back up to the tower, there was a chance that he could stop that suicide from replaying as well, but… He was feeling sick just thinking about it. And Jongin had said that the spell hadn’t been broken until Chanyeol had said his name, so since Chanyeol didn’t know the tower ghost’s name, he wasn’t really sure going up there would do anything other than force him to relive the trauma. The image of the man in the tower looking straight into Chanyeol’s eyes before cutting his own throat kept popping into his head as it was; he didn’t need to witness it again.

So he avoided the tower, and slept in his uber-modern bedroom with a white noise app playing in his earphones, blocking out the world.

The next two days, Chanyeol fell into a sort of routine. During the days, he explored the house and began the process of restoring it. Just clearing debris from hallways, fixing door hinges, and getting the pipes and electricity turned on was making a huge difference already. In the evenings, he worked on trying to catch another scene playing out, or did research.

By continuing to dig through the obituaries in that archived newspaper, Chanyeol did manage to find one other name, but it wasn’t one that matched with anything he’d experienced so far. Huang Zitao, also 25, had died in 1965, the year before Jongin’s family had moved into the house. He’d locked himself in the garage with a running car - suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning.

Chanyeol had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t suicide at all, and armed with the man’s name he spent the next day working on the east wing - which turned out to be garages on the first floor and old servants’ quarters later remodeled into extra guest suites on the second - in the hopes of being close by when the scene triggered. To his disappointment, though, nothing happened, and Chanyeol was too far from the center of the house to hear the grandfather clock chime. In fact, the day was so quiet and normal, Chanyeol almost wondered if he had imagined all of it after all.

Just to be certain, Chanyeol made sure he was in the foyer just before five-thirty. But the chandelier didn’t swing, the clock didn’t chime, and Jongin didn’t appear, just like he hadn’t appeared the night before.

“I hope you’re at peace now,” Chanyeol told the silent room.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Friday night - or, rather, Saturday morning - saw Chanyeol awakening while it was still full dark. At first, he only blinked groggily up at the ceiling, not certain _why_ he was awake at the ungodly hour of - he glanced at the clock - one forty-two AM.

Then, he became aware of faint music playing, seeping through the gentle rain noises pattering in his ears.

Chanyeol yanked his earphones out and listened. That was definitely piano music. With his heart suddenly in his throat, Chanyeol sat up and cocked his head. There were several pianos all over the house, where was the music coming from?

It was really hard to tell the direction. Getting out of bed, Chanyeol paced around the room, trying to figure out where the music was easier to hear. It took a moment, and he got some conflicting evidence, but then he realized why. Opening the door in the corner of his room, Chanyeol stuck his head in the stairwell and listened.

Yep. The music was coming from the west tower, above him.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Chanyeol muttered, and raced down the hall to grab a stepladder.

The spiral staircase up to the west tower was rusted through because there was a collapsed section of the roof above, exposing the antique cast iron to the elements. Chanyeol had been looking for an artisan who might be able to come fix it, but in the meantime, getting up to the second floor of the tower would take a bit of work. He ended up using the ladder to bypass the staircase entirely, climbing directly up onto the landing in front of the tower room’s doorway.

The tower room was circular and really quite large. Thin windows were spaced evenly around the entire perimeter, but most of the light in the room was coming from moonlight streaming through the part of the roof that was collapsed. Debris littered the hardwood floor, leaves and twigs and fallen shingles blown into piles against the walls.

On the opposite side of the room from the collapse sat a large, weatherbeaten antique grand piano, and the semi-translucent figure of a man sat upon the bench.

As he came closer, Chanyeol realized he actually recognized the piece the man was playing. It was Beethoven’s _Für Elise,_ a piece Chanyeol had learned in his piano lessons back in secondary school. He hadn’t recognized it at first because the man had been playing the much lighter, less well known B section of the piece, and not actually very well. When the music returned to the main theme, Chanyeol of course recognized it immediately, despite the occasional missed note.

Chanyeol came around to the side of the piano to get a better look at the ghost’s face. To his surprise, he recognized it. It was the same man that Chanyeol had seen in the northeast tower. He was fully dressed now, in long trousers, a trim brocade waistcoat, an open suit jacket with tails, and a rather frothy cravat tied at his throat.

Long fingers missed three notes in a row, and the ghost suddenly slammed his hands down on the keys, blaring out discord and making Chanyeol jump. Making a frustrated noise, the ghost stood, strode over to the nearby window, and leaned both hands on the sill.

Watching him, Chanyeol tried to puzzle out what was going on here. This didn’t seem to be a death scene like the others he’d witnessed. In fact, he was pretty sure he already knew how this particular ghost had died, so why was this scene playing out? Did this event have something to do with why the ghost had decided to kill himself, was it somehow important?

Or did ghosts just get bored?

Unable to touch the ghost, and guessing that he wouldn’t be able to get his attention without knowing his name, Chanyeol instead sat at the piano. Did he remember how to play _Für Elise?_

It had been close to a decade since he had tried, but after a moment of poking around, Chanyeol found the right key and muscle memory took over. The piano was no longer in good tune and the pedals were sticky, but he managed a relatively clear rendition of the main, most recognizable theme anyway.

“You are a better musician than I.”

Chanyeol startled, his hands slipping discordantly off the keys, his foot dropping unconsciously on the damper pedal and forcing the last raw chord to ring out against the walls as he looked up. The ghost was standing next to the piano, looking right at him with mild curiosity.

“Uh.” Chanyeol swallowed, at a loss for what to do. “You can… see me?”

An unhumorous smile twitched at the corners of the ghost’s mouth. “Should I not? You are the one who is real, after all.”

Whoa. Chanyeol blinked in shock. “You know you’re a ghost.”

The ghost reached up to his throat and dug long fingers into the knot of his cravat, pulling it open to reveal the open, bloody wound at his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

Chanyeol stood, his heart pounding with - fear? Excitement? Nerves, certainly. It wasn’t every day that you got to speak directly to a ghost!

The ghost was as tall as he was - taller, even, since he was wearing shoes and Chanyeol was barefoot. Chanyeol came closer, staring at the wound in morbid fascination. “Does that… hurt?”

The ghost knotted his cravat again. “Not anymore,” he murmured.

A thousand questions raced through Chanyeol’s mind. Who are you, why did you kill yourself, what does it feel like to be a ghost, what is going on in this house - but Chanyeol didn’t get a chance to ask any of them. The ghost turned his head, looking sharply towards the other side of the room as if he’d heard something, and then he moved, crossing the room towards the east-facing windows. Chanyeol followed him, wondering what he was looking at.

The window was narrow, and Chanyeol had to get very close to the ghost in order to see out, cold clamminess all down his side like he’d stepped into a very condensed bank of fog. He followed the ghost’s gaze towards the northeast tower, just visible over the roofline of the house.

Only barely visible in the moonlight, a man-sized figure stood on fifth-floor terrace of the tower.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“That isn’t you,” Chanyeol whispered. “Is it?”

“No,” the ghost said softly in his ear. “But it’s my fault.”

The man fell. A piercing, familiar scream ripped through the night, and Chanyeol shut his eyes as the sound of shattering glass rang out.

“They’re _all_ my fault.”

The grandfather clock chimed twice. When Chanyeol opened his eyes again, he was alone. The ghost was gone.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

It was hard for Chanyeol to go back to sleep after that, but he forced himself to at least try, lying in bed with the covers pulled up over his shoulders, gentle rain noises playing in his ears, and the image of the falling body repeating over and over in his mind. Around five in the morning, he gave up, and went to go make some coffee.

He drank his coffee and ate his breakfast in his sitting room, with the doors to the back patio open to let in the morning breeze and his laptop set up on the lifted top of his cool new convertible coffee table. He’d already sent an email to the real estate agent who had helped him transfer the manor into his name, asking her if there was any way he could get his hands on the deed history of the house, and was looking online for anything he could find about previous owners.

There wasn’t much to find - or maybe he just wasn’t using the right search terms - but he did find a human interest piece about the remodeling that his aunt had done shortly after moving into the house, in the early 80’s. As he’d suspected, the old kitchen had been completely knocked out and replaced, and the three rooms that came off the kitchen - family room, sunroom, and breakfast room - had been an entirely new addition.

That probably meant he could rule those rooms out, then. His aunt had been the only one who lived here since Jongin’s family had moved out; Jongin’s death was likely the most recent death within the house. Chanyeol didn’t think it likely any ghosts would appear in those rooms.

Chanyeol wondered if the fact that his aunt had had the former parlor and lounge converted into a first-floor master suite would have any effect on the ghosts. So far, other than the piano-playing dark-eyed man in the tower room, nothing supernatural had happened to him there, so he was hopeful.

Thinking of the piano-playing man, whom Chanyeol was beginning to call ‘the tower ghost’ in his mind, made Chanyeol wonder if he could find anything. He did some research on _Für Elise,_ then on the clothes the ghost was wearing, trying to pinpoint what era the ghost might be from.

The style of the tailcoat and cravat that the man had worn matched best with the early 19th century, sometime around the 1820 to 1840 range. Oddly, though, the sheet music for _Für Elise_ wasn’t released to the public until 1867, and Chanyeol could only assume it would have taken a few years for it to become popular, which would date the ghost somewhere in the 1870’s at the earliest. Curious.

Around nine, he got a call from Amber.

“Hey, you.”

_“Hey, loser. Am I coming over tonight?”_

The terrified face of a young man getting dragged backwards flashed through Chanyeol’s mind, and he hesitated, but - that was silly. The house hadn’t actually tried to hurt him, or Amber. It was probably safe. “Sure,” he said. “It’ll give me an excuse to not work for a few hours.”

_“...Yeol, it’s the weekend. It is, in fact, Saturday. Please tell me you’re not planning to work on the house today.”_

“Um… yes? What else would I be doing?”

_“Have you taken an entire day off from home improvement since you moved in?”_

“...Not really.”

_“Park Chanyeol!”_

Chanyeol huffed, annoyed at her chiding tone. “Hey, I’m the one who’s gotta live here, alright? So sue me if I want it to get it cleaned out quickly.”

_“You’re seriously telling me you’ve been working on the house for two and a half weeks straight, with no breaks at all?”_

“I take breaks. I’m a twenty-six year old _man,_ Amber, I can set my own schedule.”

 _“Eating lunch doesn’t count, as a break, Yeol, and don’t give me that, I know you. You’re burying yourself in the work so you don’t have to think about anything else.”_ Ouch. Stung, Chanyeol opened his mouth to retort, but Amber wasn’t done. _“Okay, I’m definitely coming over tonight, as soon as I get out of work. As for you, I am_ ordering _you not to work on the house in any way today. Put the hammer down and back away slowly.”_

It wasn’t worth the argument, and Chanyeol knew it. “Fine, fine. I’ll take a day off and… I don’t know. Watch horror movies or something.”

Amber was silent for a second. _“Chanyeol… I’m really thinking you don’t need to watch any horror movies. Do me a favor and watch something totally brainless, okay? Like… I don’t know. Iron Chef, maybe.”_

Chanyeol had meant it as a joke, and Amber’s genuinely concerned tone caught him off guard. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

 _“You saw a man kill himself in your bed,”_ Amber retorted, her tone careful.

“Oh, for - Stop _tiptoeing_ around me, I’m not insane,” Chanyeol told her. “I saw him again last night, by the way.”

A pause. _“What?”_

So Chanyeol told her about the piano and the tower and watching the man jump together. “He said, ‘They’re all my fault.’ What do you think that means? I’ve been trying to work it out for hours but it’s so open ended.”

_“Wait, wait, whoa. You said you dreamed the glass breaking the last time. Now you’re telling me it was the exact same crash, a week later?”_

“Yeah, dude, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” Chanyeol sat back and put his feet up. “I mean, obviously I didn’t see the jumper the first time, but the scream was the same, the crash was the same, and the grandfather clock was the same.” Then, suddenly, something occurred to him. “Hey… you’re right though. The first time, it was a week ago. _Exactly_ a week ago. Like down to the _minute._ ”

_“Huh?”_

“Two AM on Saturday mornings,” Chanyeol muttered. “Or, I mean, shortly before two AM. Maybe some of the scenes in the house play out weekly instead of daily? That would explain why I’ve only seen some things once, but other things I’ve seen over and over.” He blinked at nothing, a realization seeping into his mind. “Oh. Shit.”

 _“Oh, shit, what? Yeol, what the heck is going on with you?”_ Her tone was worried, and that familiar resentful guilt was crawling into Chanyeol’s stomach again. _“You’ve really been acting strange. Maybe you should come visit me tonight instead.”_

“No way, dude,” Chanyeol said stubbornly. “I have to show you my sweet new digs!”

Silence for a moment. _“Okay, now you’re_ purposely _fucking with me.”_

“Maybe. I did get a bunch of new furniture in though.” He patted the couch fondly. “And a huge TV! You’ll love it.”

_“Yeol…”_

“Quit worrying. I’ll see you tonight. Bring me takeout, I don’t feel like cooking.” That made her laugh, and she agreed and hung up. Grumbling to himself about nosy, overbearing friends, Chanyeol opened up his color-coded chart of all of the scenes he’d encountered in the house.

The scene with the tiger had last played out on Sunday, just after 5:30. If he was right about some scenes being weekly, then… would it play out again tomorrow? Could Chanyeol do anything to stop it?

Maybe not, but he had to try. Leaving his half-finished coffee on the table, Chanyeol went down the hall to the closet where he’d stuffed the tiger-skin rug. It was still there, bundled up and glaring. Since Chanyeol had no idea if any of the chimneys were open - probably not - he instead picked it up and hauled it outside to the empty pond.

It took a second to find some fuel, but Chanyeol eventually fetched an old kerosene lamp from the guest wing, emptied it over the tiger skin, and set it ablaze.

The thing was pretty ugly, anyway.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol texted Amber to go around the back and come in through the patio doors when she arrived, so late that afternoon, Amber walked in to find Chanyeol on his laptop in his sitting room.

“Dude, this is awesome,” Amber said approvingly as she toed off her shoes. “But I thought you were going to restore the house, not update it?”

Without looking up, Chanyeol waved his hand at her dismissively. “I will,” he said, “just not the master suite. I didn’t throw anything out or paint over anything that wasn’t already painted; if I want to restore it later I can.”

Flopping down next to him on the couch, Amber put her feet up on the ottoman. “Sweet,” she said. “Whatcha working on?”

Chanyeol turned his laptop towards her to display the scan of an antique title deed he was studying. “I’m charting out the history of ownership of the manor,” he muttered. “My agent sent me everything she had on file, but it’s all out of order and there’s a bunch of missing spots, so I’m trying to fill in the blanks with newspaper articles or anything else I can find online.” He huffed. “I’m probably going to have to go down to the town and see if their library or the city records have more details. Most of this is way too old to be online.”

Amber gave him a reproachful look. “Chanyeol, this doesn’t look like _not working._ ”

“It’s not home improvement, though.”

“Well, true, but…” She looked around for a second, and then picked up his coffee cup, sitting empty on the table with a dried ring of coffee dregs in the very bottom. “...You haven’t been sitting here _all day,_ have you?”

Chanyeol glanced at her. “No! Only… most of it.” He quickly minimized the deed, turning his color-coded chart so she could see it. “I’m putting together a timeline. I think all of the ghosts were young men who died in the house, so I’m trying to figure out if they had a connection, if they were all living here or if young men who were just visiting died too or - ”

“Chanyeol! _Breathe._ ” Amber squeezed his shoulder and waited, staring at him, until he took a deep breath and let it out all the way. “Dude, you don’t look so good. You’re kind of flushed and sweaty, are you okay?”

Damnit. He should have known better than to talk to her about this; she was never going to believe him. Brushing her off, Chanyeol saved his work and closed his laptop. “I’m fine. This room gets kind of warm, I don’t have the air conditioning working yet.” He cocked his head. “I should probably get some fans, honestly.” Amber looked skeptical, so Chanyeol flashed her his best smile. “Did you bring me takeout?”

She held up the bag, and Chanyeol grinned and lead the way into the kitchen, trying not to favor his injured leg too much. He hadn’t told her about it, and he didn’t want her to fuss, so he changed the subject, asking her about her latest exam and the cute grad student she’d been eyeing.

Putting the takeout containers in the microwave, Chanyeol shut the door, pressed the start button, turned around - and stopped. Amber was still talking, but Chanyeol was no longer listening, because a young man Chanyeol had never seen before was standing right in between them.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his eyes wide.

Seeing his expression, Amber stopped talking. “Yeol? What is it, did you forget something?”

The young man was small, narrow-shouldered, wide-eyed, with long hair tied up in a crisp topknot. He held a large chef’s knife in his hands, and was moving like he was prepping food, but he wasn’t standing at the counter and there was no food to be seen. Chanyeol could see Amber’s dyed hair through the young man’s head.

“You… you don’t see him?” Chanyeol asked.

“See who?” Amber looked around, but Chanyeol could tell from the way her eyes scanned that no, she could not see the ghost.

She took a step forward, right into the space the ghost was occupying, as if it wasn’t there. “Move back!” Chanyeol hissed, flapping his hands at her until she moved. “Shit, you can’t even _feel_ that? Whenever I step into a ghost it feels like I fell face-first into a melting snowbank.”

Amber reached out and swiped her hand through the air a few times. It passed through the apparition’s shoulders. “Here?” she said.

“Yeah.”

She looked at him funny. “I don’t feel anything.”

Huffing, Chanyeol took a step to the side so he could see the ghost more clearly. “He looks like he’s about a hundred-seventy centimeters, maybe a little taller,” Chanyeol said, indicating the man’s height with his hand. “Good-looking, in a wide-eyed kind of way. He’s prepping food of some kind, I can’t see what.” Chanyeol looked around a little. “This must have been where the kitchen counter was, when he was alive.”

“Chanyeol,” Amber said, very slowly and carefully. “There’s nothing here.”

“He’s wearing a hanbok,” Chanyeol said, ignoring her. “Plain, dark-colored, probably a servant? He’s in the kitchens, I imagine he must be a - _shit!_ ”

The young man had turned away and tripped over nothing visible, falling directly through Chanyeol’s body. Chanyeol skipped backwards as a clammy, wet chill brushed over his skin.

The knife had embedded in the tile, blade-up, and the young man had fallen directly onto it, the blade protruding from between his shoulders. Dead center, perfectly severing his spinal cord; he must have died almost instantly. Chanyeol watched in horror as the ghost twitched and gurgled, the life draining from him as blood soaked the tiles, following a pattern of grout that didn’t match the pattern Chanyeol could see.

Chanyeol dropped to the ground, reaching out. The ghost felt almost solid, the air resisting his hands, but he couldn’t get a grip. “No,” he muttered. “No, no, fuck, how many fucking times am I going to have to watch someone die in this house?”

The clock chimed quarter to seven.

“Chanyeol, what is that?”

“It’s the grandfather clock,” Chanyeol said numbly. “It chimes when a ghost relives their death.”

“What?” Looking confused, Amber crouched next to him. “What clock? I was talking about _that._ ”

She pointed at his leg. Chanyeol looked where she was pointing, and saw that the cuff of his jeans was riding up, revealing the bottom edge of his injury. “That’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just an accident.” He looked back to the body, but - “Damn. It’s gone.”

“Sit your ass down,” Amber commanded, pushing him back onto the tile floor. For one sick second, Chanyeol felt hot, fresh blood soak through his pants and cover his hands. He recoiled, but in the next moment the feeling was gone, and so was the blood. “Let me see that.”

She carefully rolled up his jeans leg. There were four long scrapes up the front and side of Chanyeol’s shin, varying lengths and depths. They’d scabbed over but the skin around them was bright red, and when Amber carefully prodded one, Chanyeol hissed and recoiled in pain.

Wide-eyed, Amber looked at him. “The fuck happened to you?”

“I, um. Went through a staircase.” He tried on a sheepish smile.

“ _Christ._ ” Amber shook her head. “We’re going to the hospital.”

Chanyeol blinked. “What? No, I’m fine.”

“These are _infected,_ Chanyeol,” Amber snapped, with such sharpness that Chanyeol suddenly realized she was really, _really_ freaked out. “You’re running a fever, you’re fucking hallucinating, _you’re going to the hospital._ Don’t make me carry you over my shoulders, dude, because I _will._ ”

“Amber - ”

“No. I’m not letting you do this shit to yourself. Not _again._ ” Amber stood and dragged him bodily to his feet, tucking herself under his arm like a human crutch. “C’mon. I’ll drive.”

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

As it turned out, the cuts were indeed infected, and Chanyeol spent the night in the hospital. Just a precaution, the doctor had said, but it freaked Chanyeol out anyway. Amber stayed with him, getting a hotel room overnight and then coming the next day to hang out by his bedside while he waited for the doctors to figure out if they were going to release him.

Most of that time, Amber was obviously trying to distract Chanyeol with pop culture chat or dumb gossip, but as they were driving back to the manor, she got a bit quiet, then took a deep breath.

“Chanyeol, I don’t think you should keep living in that house by yourself.”

Unsurprised, but no less dreading this conversation because of it, Chanyeol kept his gaze aimed out the window. “I’m fine,” he said softly.

“No, you really aren’t. And you haven’t been for a while.”

That actually did surprise him, and he glanced at her. “What? Me getting injured isn’t related to Minho breaking up with me, Amber.”

“No, I mean - well. Isn’t it, though? In a way?” Chanyeol’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Amber sighed. “You didn’t really have time to recover before going off on this project. And, like, it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve sunk yourself too deep into a project to distract yourself from pain.”

Oh. Chanyeol flushed. “It’s not like that this time,” he insisted. “I’m like… I’m _functional._ I promise I am. I’ve got my routines down and I’m remembering to eat at least twice a day and to shower at least every other day.” It had taken a bit, but he was in that place now, and being accused of falling back into bad habits stung, probably more than Amber realized.

Amber’s gaze bored into him, in between her glancing back at the road, anyway. “Are you _sure?_ That was a nasty breakup. And like, you still won’t tell me _why_ he dumped you.”

“Less nasty than the one before it,” Chanyeol mumbled. Minho hadn’t called him a frigid freak, anyway. “Minho had good reasons. It hurts, but he was right to leave.”

“Bullshit. You’re a fucking fabulous catch, what reason could he have to leave?”

Chanyeol laughed at her vehemence, but it wasn’t very humorous laughter. “I like to think I make a decent friend,” he said, “but I’m pretty shit at being a boyfriend. Look, just drop it, okay?”

“Yeol…”

“I’m _okay,_ Amber. I get why you’re worried, but it really isn’t like last time. Minho and I just weren’t a good fit. He had his reasons and I understand them.” He shrugged unhappily. “I think I probably need to just be alone and get my own head on straight first, before I try anything new.”

“If you say so,” Amber said. “I just don’t like you being alone in that house all the time. I think the solitude is really getting to you.”

Ah. Suddenly, Chanyeol realized what she was getting at. “You think I’m losing my mind.”

Amber pursed her lips and didn’t answer.

Sighing, Chanyeol leaned his head on the window. “Right, then.” He had guessed, honestly. It was, after all, pretty insane, and Amber hadn’t seen what he had seen. An impending mental breakdown was a neater and less existentially troubling explanation than actual, for real ghosts of actual, for real people, actually manifesting in Chanyeol’s house.

They made the rest of the drive in relative silence, just the sound of the radio playing old hip-hop in the background. The manor was exactly as Chanyeol had left it, the sun hanging low enough in the sky that the house blocked it from view as they pulled into the driveway. Amber insisted on carrying Chanyeol’s bag into the house, which had Chanyeol grumbling about not being _incapacitated_ as he followed her up the stairs, still favoring his bad leg.

A terrible roar cut through the air as Chanyeol put his key in the lock, and Chanyeol suddenly realized it was just past 5:30 on a Sunday afternoon and what, exactly, that _meant._

He glanced at Amber, but she had no reaction. There was no way she wouldn’t have reacted to hearing a _tiger roaring inside the house,_ so obviously, she hadn’t heard it, just like she hadn’t seen the servant fall on his knife the day before.

Swallowing hard, Chanyeol schooled his features into something neutral, opened the door, and walked in the house like nothing was wrong.

Screaming met his ears, and in front of him, between the staircases and under the balcony in the great room, Chanyeol could see the young man running, tripping, scrabbling against the door frame as the too-large, striped beast behind him dragged him brutally backwards. Turning his back on the scene - and firmly telling himself it wasn’t real - Chanyeol tried to smile normally. “Thanks for - bringing me home.”

Amber squinted at him. “You look pale again.”

Shit. “I’m fine,” Chanyeol said cheerfully. The sound of flesh ripping away from bones filled his ears, drawing bile up his throat.

“Are you sure? I can stay.”

“You have classes,” Chanyeol pointed out. “And a two-hour drive home. The sun is setting soon, you should get going.”

Amber didn’t seem convinced, but after a little more stalling, she eventually hugged him tightly and left. By the time she did, the horrible sounds had stopped, and the grandfather clock was chiming a quarter to six.

Taking a deep breath, Chanyeol turned back towards the great room.

The ghost’s body - corpse? - _remains_ \- were lying on the bare floor where the tiger-skin rug used to lay, blood draining from the ripped-up flesh and draining away into a puddle on the floorboards. It was horrifying in a visceral way that none of the other deaths Chanyeol had witnessed so far had been, and the only thing that kept Chanyeol from losing his meager hospital lunch was the lack of smell and the fact that he could see the pattern of the wood grain through the body.

It wasn’t really there - but at one point, sometime in the house’s history, it had been. Right there.

Chanyeol fell back against the wall and dropped to the floor. His body didn’t disturb the ghostly pool of blood that edged up on his feet.

After a few moments, in which Chanyeol simply sat and stared blankly at the body, he registered movement and looked up. The tower ghost - the one with the black eyes - sank to his knees next to Chanyeol’s hip. He was wearing a hanbok this time, very traditional in design, his long hair tied up in a high topknot rather than pulled back at his nape. Like Chanyeol, his clothes did not soak up the blood, and Chanyeol found the chill of his presence at Chanyeol’s side to be grounding.

They stayed like that for a good long time, until the sun had set and the body on the floor had faded, leaving nothing behind but the bloody, desperate handprint on the wall. Eventually, Chanyeol turned to the tower ghost beside him, and found that he was watching Chanyeol rather than the now-empty spot on the floor.

“Amber couldn’t see him,” Chanyeol said.

“No.”

“...Why?”

The tower ghost regarded him for a moment, as if trying to decide what to say. Finally, he spoke.

“Because she isn’t a victim,” he replied.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/unnie_bee), [askfm](https://ask.fm/unnie_bee), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/unnie_bee)!


	4. Chapter 4

 

_Monday, September 16, 2019_

 

When the tower ghost faded, Chanyeol found he missed the company. It occurred to him that he could go sleep in the tower bedroom again tonight, and in a strange way, the idea appealed - even if he didn’t see the tower ghost, at least he would know he wasn’t alone. But then he’d almost certainly be awoken by the ghost replaying his suicide, and Chanyeol really wasn’t… up for that. Not after seeing the death in the great room.

So he slept in his own, ultra-modern room, earphones in and lights off, cocooned away from the rest of the house. It didn’t stop him from having uneasy nightmares about getting chased by tigers, but at least he wasn’t awoken by someone dying.

Monday morning saw him taking his coffee in his sitting room with the patio doors open to let in a breeze, as had become his custom. The lingering anxiety and terror of the night before was fading away in the face of the routine, which was exactly why Chanyeol relied on routine so much. Just like when he’d spiraled into depression after that first, harsh breakup, the comfort of a routine got him moving and made him feel more in control.

With his perfectly prepared coffee in hand, Chanyeol felt much more ready to tackle the week.

He started by outlining what he wanted to accomplish in terms of the house renovations. By this point, the act of cleaning up and refurbishing the house had become a symbolic act of rebellion against whatever in this house was killing young men and holding their souls hostage. It was Chanyeol’s house now, and he fully intended to show it who was boss.

With a rather aggressive plan for the week’s remodeling laid out, Chanyeol turned to his other project. He could fill in a bit more of his chart now, adding the servant with the knife in the kitchen and the exact time of the tiger mauling, since he’d glanced at his watch as they were walking into the house last night.

He looked over the rest of the chart. He still hadn’t found Zitao’s scene, or in which room the drowning that Jongin had described took place. He did know the time and place of four deaths besides the tower ghost, two of which he had by now witnessed in full - the servant with the knife, the tiger mauling, the body frozen in the pond, and the man who jumped from the tower.

Creating a new document in his growing “haunted house” folder, Chanyeol set himself some goals for the week, neatly outlined.

x Fully witness the deaths at the fountain and on top of the tower  
x Figure out which room was Jongin’s and witness the bathtub ghost’s death  
x Find Huang Zitao  
x Discover more names of young men who died  
x Stretch goal: Stop at least one scene from playing out  
x Stretch goal: Find the tower ghost again and ask his name.

It was ambitious for a single week, but Chanyeol couldn’t help but feel that he had to hurry. The ghosts were clearly locked in torment; they deserved to be freed as soon as Chanyeol could manage it. The most important part was finding more names, so Chanyeol thought maybe he could spend some time down in the town today, looking through the library and the town’s records. He’d finished charting out the deed history, and he had the names of nearly every owner of the house since 1900, so that would be a place to start.

Spending two weeks alone and a day in the hospital had left Chanyeol a bit scruffy, so once his coffee cup was clean and drying on the rack, Chanyeol took a nice long, hot shower. While his hair was drying, Chanyeol set up to shave, patting shaving cream onto his face and leaning over the sink.

Eyes that were not his own stared back at him.

Startling, Chanyeol jumped, and accidentally nicked his jawline with his safety razor. Clamping a hand to the small wound, Chanyeol squinted until the double image in the mirror became clear.

It was the tower ghost, of course, because none of the other ghosts ever showed up outside of their death scenes. His frilly, western-style collared shirt was hanging completely open, and he was also covered in shaving lather and carefully running the same ornate straight razor he’d used to kill himself delicately over his skin.

Chanyeol watched him for a moment, morbidly transfixed. The tower ghost’s neck was clear and unmarred, no evidence of his death wound visible, and Chanyeol was just waiting for him to slip and blood to flow. But he didn’t. He just finished shaving, wiping his face off with a hand towel, giving no indication that he saw Chanyeol.

“What’s your name?” Chanyeol asked. He received no answer, no acknowledgement at all, as if he wasn’t there. “Can you hear me?” he tried. “Who are you? Why are you different than the other ghosts?”

Still no answer. Chanyeol huffed, frustrated.

“I wish you would talk to me more,” he said. “I want to get to know you.”

No response.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol spent the morning at the library in town, cross-referencing everything he had figured out so far with digitized newspaper archives and town history books. It took him most of the morning, but he emerged victorious with three new names of young men who had died in the house.

Searching for ‘bathtub drown’ in the newspaper archives of a different local paper than the one he’d already searched got him the name Zhang Yixing, who must have been the man Jongin kept seeing. Yixing had died in 1934 at age 26, and since he had no known history of depression, mental disturbance or suicidal ideation, his death was ruled accidental.

Yixing was Chinese by birth, having moved to Korea to live with his grandfather only about a year prior to his death. The manor had changed hands between Korean and Chinese families several times, and Jongin had mentioned that the ghost he saw dying outside in the driveway had been wearing robes - not hanbok, but _robes_. So Chanyeol cross-referenced the names of all of the Chinese owners of the house with terms like accidental death, accident, hit by, run over, until he found what he was looking for. Lu Han, the son of a Chinese businessman who had owned the house for a short while, had been hit by a runaway carriage on the eve of his 27th birthday - April 19th, 1879.

The information was part of a genealogy project that someone had undertaken in the 1920’s, and it seemed that the woman who had done the project had heard the story from her grandmother, who had been Lu Han’s cousin. The grandmother noted that Lu Han had fallen mentally ill, steadily getting worse over the course of more than a year, that he’d often babbled about dead people and had terrible paranoia, constantly thinking that something was out to get him. On the night he died, he’d broken free from his nurse and run through the house as if being chased, screaming for help, and ran right into the path of a carriage whose team had spooked.

The story would have been disturbing even if Chanyeol believed that Lu Han hadn’t been in any real danger, but knowing that whatever he saw was probably real made it even worse. Shuddering, Chanyeol took a photo of the page for future reference, and kept looking.

Though he searched for another hour, Chanyeol couldn’t find anything about someone freezing to death in the pond or being ripped apart by a tiger, which was a bit unusual since the deaths must have been unexplained mysteries at the time that they happened. He did, however, find one more name, someone entirely new. Kim Jongdae had been caught in a house fire on September 3rd, 1949. He hadn’t even lived in the house; he was a guest, visiting the manor with his family, who had business and social ties with the owner at that time. The fire had destroyed a chunk of the guest wing, which was completely closed off shortly after that, never to be used again.

The story explained the burnt section of the house, why the guest wing was still decorated in sleek, mid-century style, and why the guest library had nothing in it newer than that period, but Chanyeol was surprised that he hadn’t seen a hint of Jongdae’s scene yet. According to the article, the fire had happened during the day, at some point in the late afternoon. If such a destructive scene was playing out, Chanyeol would have thought he would have smelled smoke or heard the crackle or _something._ The house was large, but not so large that Chanyeol wouldn’t have noticed a big chunk of it literally _on fire._ Still, just because he hadn’t witnessed the scene _yet_ didn’t mean that he wouldn’t later, so Chanyeol took a photo of that article as well, just in case he needed to check it later.

Opening up his chart, Chanyeol took stock of his progress. He now had five names total - Kim Jongin, Huang Zitao, Zhang Yixing, Lu Han, and Kim Jongdae. Three Chinese, two Korean, all of them young men aged 25 or 26.

He had, so far, seen five ghosts - the tower ghost, the jumper, the servant in the kitchen, the victim of the tiger, and Jongin. He’d also seen evidence of two more, the frozen ghost and whomever the clock chime at quarter-to-nine last Wednesday had been for. None of the ghosts that he knew of had a time of death that early in the morning, so Chanyeol suspected that one was someone entirely different, someone he didn’t have any other clue for.

Five names, seven ghosts, and the only ghost he had seen for whom he had a name was Jongin. In total, eleven ghosts, ten of which still needed saving.

It was a start. Satisfied with his morning’s work, Chanyeol packed up and headed home.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

A productive morning of research was followed by a productive afternoon of housework and scheduling workmen to come in for the rest of the week. Pleased with himself, Chanyeol went to the kitchen to put together some dinner.

The walls of the kitchen were dripping with blood, dark and thick, unmistakable.

“Oh, come on,” Chanyeol snapped at the house at large. “That isn’t even original anymore. I know it’s not real, just stop.”

A chuckle sounded in his ear. Chanyeol whipped around, but there was no one there - no one visible, anyway.

“Ugh,” he said, and stomped over to the pantry, resolutely gathering his ingredients. When he pulled his head back out, the blood was gone. “That’s right,” he said. “Not taking your bullshit.” The windows rattled, but that was probably just the wind, not the house giving him backtalk, so Chanyeol ignored it and set about cooking.

He did, however, avoid using knives as much as possible. Just in case.

With his food made and soda in hand, Chanyeol moved back to his sitting room to eat. He really needed to get the breakfast room at least cleared out so he could eat at an actual table, with the added bonus of the room being too new to have any ghosts hanging around in it. Over the weekend, maybe.

After dinner, Chanyeol made himself watch some brainless videos online, Amber’s worries still stinging his mind. But as the hour got later, he found himself looking back over his charts and considering his options.

So far, he’d ruled out two of the four bathrooms on the second floor as possibilities for Yixing’s scene. There was a chance that Jongin’s room had been one of the suites out in the east wing, over the garage, but Chanyeol figured he should rule out the more obvious options first. The grandfather clock had been chiming every night at ten PM, so Chanyeol was pretty sure Yixing’s death would repeat at some point just before ten.

He picked one of the two remaining rooms and went upstairs just after nine, parking himself on the bed such that he could see the bathroom door. He settled in, doing his research in silence and glancing up at the bathroom every so often just to make sure it was still empty.

Nothing happened.

The clock chimed ten, and Chanyeol groaned and got up to head to bed. He’d just have to keep trying.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

The next few days were so busy, Chanyeol barely had time to eat, let alone go ghost hunting. Roofers, cleaning crews, electricians and plumbers were working on all different parts of the house, and Chanyeol was running himself ragged just making sure none of them did any further damage to the house or threw away anything that Chanyeol wanted to keep. He was falling into bed each night dead tired, and sleeping deeply until his alarm in the morning.

He did attempt to fully witness the scene at the pond on Tuesday afternoon, but just the same as last time, the only sign of anything ghostlike was the totally dry pool suddenly being filled with ice. Chanyeol did catch a worker as she passed and as if she thought anything was wrong with the pool; her confusion told him that no one else could even see the ice. Wednesday and Thursday were completely devoid of any ghostly activity as far as Chanyeol could see, except for that damn clock chime at 8:45 on Wednesday morning that he still had no idea what it meant.

Thursday night saw most of the crews finishing up and heading out just after dinnertime. The roofers would be back, since the damage to the west wing was too extensive to fix in just a few days, but the other teams were done for the moment. Chanyeol figured he would probably be calling them back soon enough, but for now, he’d accomplished what he’d set out to accomplish this week, on the house renovation front, anyway.

On the ghost-hunting front, though, he was a bit behind, so Chanyeol decided he would check out that last bedroom on the second floor. If that was a bust, he’d start looking at the east wing tomorrow night. So he gathered up his laptop and parked himself on the last bed, again with the bathroom door in view.

He spent most of the hour shopping for just the right dining set for his now-cleaned-out breakfast room. That space was more public, so he looked for something classic, something that fit with the house’s overall vibe. He was considering whether to go with a traditional Korean floor table or an antique European dining set when a creak got his attention.

The bathroom door had swung open.

Chanyeol glanced at the time - 9:46. Sitting up straight with his heartbeat suddenly racing in his ears, Chanyeol squinted at the bathroom. 

There was nothing there - no footsteps, no ghostly shadows, nothing else moving. But it was more of an indication than anything he’d gotten so far, so Chanyeol slid off the bed and padded over to the door, eyes wide open and ears perked.

The bathroom was silent, the fixtures orange with rust and almost matching the intensely hideous orange-and-brown 70’s tile. Chanyeol hadn’t turned the water on to this bathroom yet, since he wasn’t really confident in the integrity of the pipes in this part of the house, but just to check, he turned the handle on the sink faucet. As expected, nothing came out.

As he was turning the faucet back off, Chanyeol thought he saw a flash of movement in the mirror above the sink. He turned, but he was still alone.

“Hello?” he called out. No answer, of course.

But the door to the bathroom swung closed and latched.

Chanyeol crossed the bathroom and tried the handle. It was clearly locked, maybe even jammed.

“Okay,” he said aloud. “I guess this is the place.” Pressing his back against the door, Chanyeol watched the rest of the bathroom warily.

A few moments later, the bathtub’s tap turned on, and water began rushing into the tub.

Heaving out a breath, Chanyeol stared at it. “Right. Here we go.”

He moved forward to inspect the situation. The water was… not quite touching the bottom of the tub, not quite reaching the sides, as if it was held by a different tub than the one Chanyeol could see, one with a higher bottom and narrower width. Carefully, Chanyeol reached into the water, and found it to be cold and clammy like fog, not wet at all. His hand did not cause waves, and no droplets clung to him when he pulled his hand back out. Ghost water.

A foot appeared, suddenly protruding from Chanyeol’s chest, and Chanyeol yipped and scrambled back as the cold, gross feeling of sharing the same space as a ghost overtook his entire body. He fell flat on his ass on the half-disintegrated bath mat, staring up in shock as the hazy form of a very naked young man stepped over him and sank into the filling tub.

“Yixing,” Chanyeol breathed. The ghost’s features were difficult to make out with the bright, busy background of the old tile showing through him, but from what Chanyeol could see, he was pleasantly handsome and clean-cut, and he looked calm, not at all afraid.

So he had no idea what was about to happen, then.

“Zhang Yixing,” Chanyeol said, raising his voice. He didn’t get a response, not even a glance up. Settling comfortably in the tub, Yixing reached for something Chanyeol couldn’t see, soap perhaps. “Yixing! _Zhang Yixing!_ ”

Yixing stopped mid-motion and looked around, curious puzzlement creasing between his brows. He said something in Chinese, something Chanyeol didn’t understand, his voice soft and almost innocent in its tone.

Before Chanyeol could respond, Yixing was _yanked_ under the water, like something had grabbed him by the ankles and pulled. He slid down so fast, he didn’t even have time to scream.

“Yixing! Fuck!” Scrambling up onto his knees, Chanyeol dove for the bathtub. Yixing’s hands were flailing wildly in the air, scrambling for a grip on the sides of a tub that wasn’t there, and though Chanyeol could see him straining there was clearly something unseen holding him down. “No! Let him go, let him go!”

He plunged his hands into the chilled fog of the water, but his hands passed through Yixing’s body just as easily as the water itself. There was nothing to grab, no way for Chanyeol to pull him out.

“Zhang Yixing,” Chanyeol called desperately, “ _fight this!_ Come on, it’s not real, you can do this. Sit up! Yixing!” He tried again to grab Yixing’s shoulders, with no success.

Chanyeol kept yelling, kept reaching, hoping against hope that Yixing would become solid enough to touch, or that he would hear Chanyeol calling him. 

It didn’t happen. Eventually, Yixing went still, sinking to the bottom of the tub.

Dropping down onto one hip, Chanyeol pressed his forehead to the cold ceramic tub, blocking his view of the ghostly body and squeezing back tears. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I couldn’t save you.”

The grandfather clock chimed ten.

He sat there against the tub, with one hand reaching over the side and buried in the coldness of the ghostly water, for a long time, trying not to cry. Eventually, he realized the coldness was gone, and he looked up. The bathroom was once more silent and empty, the door once more open.

Shuddering and shaky, Chanyeol got to his feet. “Jongin saw that every night,” he thought out loud. “Night after night, he said. No wonder he thought he was going crazy.” He stopped in the doorway and looked back at the tub. “I will stop this,” he vowed. “I’ll save you. I’ll figure out what I’m missing, and I’ll save you, I promise.”

No answer, of course. Chanyeol left the room and made his way back down the stairs.

Halfway down, a terrified scream rent the air, and Chanyeol froze, wide-eyed. A figure was barreling towards the foyer from the east wing, streaking down the east gallery in a translucent cloud of billowing robes and hitting the front door with both hands on the knob. The door didn’t move, but the ghost’s hands moved as if it had, and he glanced back over his shoulder with abject terror in his eyes as he continued running right through the solid, _closed_ door.

Robes. Running outside. Fuck, _fuck_ \- 

“Lu Han!” Chanyeol yelled, and raced down the rest of the stairs three at a time. He hit the front door in nearly the same way the ghost had, shoving it open.

He got outside just in time to see Lu Han’s body shatter under the impact of something Chanyeol couldn’t see, limbs wrenched into unnatural positions. Lu Han hit the ground, the impact of invisible hooves and carriage wheels shaking his body before it lay still, broken, on the cracked concrete driveway.

Chanyeol dropped to his knees and puked on the front stoop.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. Nightmares plagued him, of blood and broken bones, water and knives and tigers, all jumbled up in his mind in a cacophony of horror. He ended up waking well before sunrise and stumbling directly out to the patio, gasping for fresh air.

Being inside the house sounded like hell today, but so did going out and being in public, so while he shakily drank his coffee Chanyeol decided to spend the day out on the grounds. It had been a while since he’d devoted any attention to them and they were at least as messy and in need of care as the inside of the house, anyway.

It worked. Though the days were getting cooler as September passed, though the autumn equinox was only a few days away, it was still pleasant outside during the daytime, warm enough to not wear a sweater. Yard work, even just the basic cleaning up that Chanyeol was doing, was a different kind of labor than home improvement, and the physicality of it really helped to clear Chanyeol’s mind. He was at it all day long, with only short periodic breaks to get water and rest.

The sun was already setting when Chanyeol, sweaty and pleasantly exhausted, started making his way back to the house. As he approached, something odd caught his eye.

There was a light on in the northeast tower. Not in the bedroom, but in the room below it. The private library.

“There’s no electricity in the tower,” Chanyeol muttered out loud, squinting up at it. Was that his imagination?

He almost wished it _was_ his imagination, but considering what he knew about the house, it probably wasn’t. Sucking in a fortifying breath, Chanyeol jogged to the east-side door and headed up the stairs to the second-floor study.

The creak of the bookcase was as obnoxious as ever, and Chanyeol mentally reminded himself again that he _really_ needed to get some WD-40 on that as he climbed the spiral staircase. The door to the third-floor library room was standing open, and there was indeed a flickering light coming from inside. Cautiously, Chanyeol crossed the threshold.

He didn’t immediately see anything, other than the fact that the kerosene lamp on the table was lit, the source of the flickering. Coming further into the room, Chanyeol peeked around the chairs.

The tower ghost was sitting calmly in one of the chairs, dressed in traditional Joseon-era jeogori and baji, the white jeogori hanging half-open. One long leg was folded up, ankle resting on the opposite knee, a sketchbook open in his lap, and a fountain pen resting between his fingers. He was clearly working, inking the lines of the pencil sketch already on the page.

It was such a peaceful scene, Chanyeol couldn’t help but to be drawn closer. He ended up standing just behind and to the right of the chair, looking over the ghost’s shoulder. Like the other sketchbook Chanyeol had seen, the drawing appeared to be a study of men’s fashion - but the suit in the drawing was modern, something like one might see on the runway at an Armani fashion show.

“Must you hover?” the ghost said quietly.

Chanyeol startled. “Sorry,” he said, automatically. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just saw the light, and…” Dark eyes flicked up to him, impassively taking him in and making Chanyeol trip over his words. The ghost was wearing a richly patterned silk scarf around his neck, incongruous with his very plain, traditional clothes, blocking his wound from view. “...Sorry. I can go.”

The ghost’s gaze returned to his work. “You can stay,” he said. 

There was no command in his voice, no question, no plea; it was said neutrally. Still, Chanyeol couldn’t deny that he _wanted_ to stay. He was curious, and this ghost had done absolutely nothing to threaten him thus far. So Chanyeol moved around to the other side, and sat in the other chair. With the lamp between them, the ghost seemed more ethereal even than usual, the light flickering right through his translucent form to dance along the bookshelves behind him.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, and Chanyeol wondered stupidly if his presence was bothering the ghost. As soon as he thought it, though, he dismissed the thought. Ghosts had no reason to be polite; the ghost wouldn’t have made the offer if he didn’t want Chanyeol to stay. Right?

“My name is Chanyeol,” Chanyeol said.

The ghost traced out the edge of a sleeve with a decisive flick of his pen. “I know,” he replied.

Well. “What’s your name?”

Silence. Dark eyes flicked to him, then dropped back down to the work, uninterested.

“Okay then,” Chanyeol mumbled, disappointed but not deterred. “The, um. The other sketchbook I found in here… Was that yours?”

The ghost gestured lazily at the perimeter of the room. “All of it was mine.”

That was a yes. “You have an accent,” Chanyeol observed. “At first I just thought it was because your style of speech is old-fashioned, but… It isn’t, is it? You’re not originally from Korea.”

This time, the ghost’s lips actually twitched a little, just at the corners. “You are full of questions.”

“Yeah, it’s a personality flaw.”

“Not always,” the ghost said. “But for you, it is dangerous.”

Chanyeol sat up a little straighter. “Because of the house?”

No answer. The ghost finished lining his sketch, and began making notes in the margins. Looking over his shoulder, Chanyeol could see that the notes were in English.

“How old are you, Chanyeol?”

Caught off-guard, Chanyeol looked up to find the ghost watching him with those unnervingly black eyes. “I’m… I’m twenty-six. Why?”

Again, no response. The ghost nodded slowly, and turned back to his work.

“How old were you?” Chanyeol asked quietly. When he didn’t get an answer, he huffed. “When did you… I mean, _why_ did you…” He sighed. “What happened to you?”

The ghost refused to answer him, continuing to draw as if Chanyeol was not there. Discouraged, Chanyeol ended up picking up one of the textbooks that he had left on the center table the last time he was up here, and paging through it. He hadn’t noticed before, but there were notes scribbled in the margins, images circled and words underlined and three different languages of observations scrawled through the pages. Someone - the ghost himself, probably - had once made quite a study of these books.

Chanyeol expected the ghost to fade, but he didn’t. He just sat beside Chanyeol and sketched by lamplight, serene. It was… actually really nice. Quiet, but Chanyeol didn’t feel like he was alone, for a change.

Eventually, the exhaustion of a day of physical labor and the gentle sounds of the pen scratching lulled Chanyeol right to sleep, and he dozed off with his head lolling against the wing-back of the chair.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol was awoken hours later by shouting in an unfamiliar voice, and startled to consciousness so hard he nearly slid right out of the chair. The lamp was doused, the ghost gone; the library was completely dark and still. Whatever the noise was, it was coming from above him.

Groggy and disoriented, Chanyeol yanked himself out of the chair and scrubbed his hand over his face. On reflex, he looked at the time, pulling out his phone since it was too dark to read his watch. It was one fifty-three AM.

On Saturday morning.

“Right,” Chanyeol said aloud, his eyes widening as his mind shocked awake. He’d even thought to himself earlier that he should try to catch the jumper tonight, but the plan had been knocked from his mind by the appearance of the tower ghost.

Chanyeol raced up the stairs.

It was a clear night, and the fifth-floor terrace was bathed in starlight, the waning moon doing little to dim the rest of the sky. Shimmering in the center of the terrace was a spectre, pacing in agitated circles with hands dug into long, loose hair. His clothes were eerily similar to the clothes the tower ghost had worn earlier that night - light blue baji and a white jeogori, disheveled and hanging half-open.

If the clothes didn’t tell Chanyeol that this ghost was older than most of the others he’d seen thus far, his cadence when he spoke would have done so. “Stop this,” the man was saying, addressing nothing that Chanyeol could see. “Leave me be!”

“Hello?” Chanyeol said, but of course, like most of the ghosts, the man didn’t hear him, didn’t acknowledge his existence. Without knowing his name, Chanyeol thought he probably didn’t have much chance of getting the ghost’s attention, either.

“No, no -” The man pressed his palms to the sides of his head, covering his ears. “I shan’t listen, I shan’t!”

The wind suddenly picked up, ruffling Chanyeol’s hair. To his surprise, it seemed to be affecting the ghost, as well; his dishevelled clothes billowed and his long hair whipped around his face. He turned suddenly, as if he had heard something.

“Come no closer, fiend!” the man said, taking a step back. Chanyeol moved so he could see the man’s face. He was clearly terrified - what was he seeing? “Stop, I say!”

The ghost was moving backwards still, stumbling, and Chanyeol suddenly knew exactly what was about to happen. So frightened, so eager to get away from whatever he was seeing in front of him, he didn’t realize how close to the edge of the terrace he was getting.

“Watch out!” Chanyeol yelled, a pure instinct, and not a very helpful one. It was too late. The ghost backed into the low fence around the terrace, right where the crumbled spot was, his foot landing on a portion of the brick flooring that had clearly been whole when he was alive, but to Chanyeol’s eyes, was no longer there. Sure enough, he overbalanced, and the wooden railing splintered under his weight. Chanyeol could almost see the bricks crumbling out from under him. 

With a scream that Chanyeol had now heard three times, the ghost toppled over the side.

Chanyeol closed his eyes and held his breath. A second later, the sound of glass shattering rang through the air. 

The whistling wind died down as abruptly as it came, and very, very faintly, Chanyeol heard the chime of the grandfather clock from deep within the house.

“Well,” Chanyeol murmured to the still night air. “I guess I’m not getting any more sleep tonight.”

He didn’t know if the ghost’s translucent, broken body would stick around for longer now, and he didn’t really want to find out; the one flash he had seen of the carnage in the conservatory was more than enough to haunt his dreams already. Instead, he slowly made his way back down the stairs, avoiding the conservatory and heading for his bedroom. 

Knowing full well that there was no way he was going to be able to sleep after that, Chanyeol intended to simply take a shower - he was still grimy from working outside all day, and stiff from sleeping in the chair besides. But when he got to his room and turned the light on, something caught his eye.

A single sheet of yellowed, antique paper, torn on one side as if it had been ripped from a book. On the page was a sketch, rough pencil that had been carefully inked in clean, if somewhat impressionistic lines.

It was a sketch of Chanyeol, asleep in the chair in the tower library.

Chanyeol actually burst into incredulous laughter. He looked around, and, seeing that he was alone, looked up instead. “This is really good,” he told his unseen housemate, feeling oddly warm. “...Thank you.”

He carefully set the brittle paper on his brand-new dresser, and went to get in the shower.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Later that morning, as Chanyeol sat with his coffee checking off the items on his list that he had managed to accomplish, he got a call from Amber.

_“Hey, loser, pack a bag. We’re going on a trip.”_

Chanyeol blinked. “What?”

_“You need a vacation, and I just so happen to be able to get a discount on flights and resorts through the school. We’re going to Jeju.”_

Frowning, Chanyeol got up and started to pace. “I can’t just up and _leave_ -”

_“Why not? You got somewhere to be? Some hot date? Chanyeol, you’ve been almost completely alone for almost three weeks straight. It’s only for a couple of days, come on.”_

Well… Biting his lip, Chanyeol looked through the doorway into his bedroom, where the sketch sat on his dresser. “How long?” he asked.

 _“Flight leaves at noon. Two nights at the resort, then we’ll be back before dinner on Monday.”_ Amber’s tone turned whiny-pleading. _“I already called off work and emailed my professors to let them know I wouldn’t be there. Come on, we haven’t been to Jeju in years, it’ll be so much fun.”_

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother…” 

_“Dude, who else would I go with? You’re my best bro, bro.”_

That made Chanyeol smile. Two days was not so bad, and he didn’t actually have anything planned. After witnessing three deaths in two days, maybe it _would_ be a good idea to get away.

“Alright,” he said, and Amber cheered. “Fine, fine. I’ll meet you at the airport.” Amber agreed, and Chanyeol quickly chugged the rest of his coffee and went to go pack.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Jeju was lovely as ever. Now having the money to do so, Chanyeol upgraded their accommodations and sprung for some really classy meals, and it actually was really good to just spend two days relaxing and hanging out with Amber.

Amber tried to get him to extend their stay, but Chanyeol knew she had a big test on Wednesday and that she couldn’t afford to miss that much work, so they left on Monday, as planned. He got home late in the afternoon. 

Since he hadn’t yet gotten around to clearing out and refinishing the two garages, Chanyeol had been parking under the porte-cochere that was in between them for now. As far as he could tell, the garage closer to the main body of the manor had once been the carriage-house, and the garage that was on the very end of the wing had once been the stables. Garage doors had been installed at some point in the early 20th century when the wing had been converted, and it seemed to Chanyeol that his great-aunt, who did not drive, had simply closed all of the garages down and never opened them again. Chanyeol was basing this observation on the sheer amount of rust and grime that was on the doors - he hadn’t been able to get any of them open, yet.

Which was why he found it odd that one of the three garage doors on the far side of the wing was standing open.

Frowning, Chanyeol left his suitcase where it sat inside his opened trunk and came over to the garage. As he got closer, he saw a flash of something translucent moving around.

“Are you kidding me?” Chanyeol muttered, exasperated. “I _just got home._ You couldn’t wait, like, two -”

He passed through the threshold of the garage, and with a horrible, screeching rumble, the garage door dropped shut behind him. Chanyeol turned and grabbed it, straining against the handle to try to pull it back up, but it was thoroughly stuck.

When he turned around, there was a car in the garage that hadn’t been there before. Definitely not a car Chanyeol would have owned, either - an enormous and elaborately styled 50’s monstrosity of a vehicle, sleek and black with chrome accents so shiny, Chanyeol could tell they were gleaming even though the car was translucent.

Belatedly and abruptly, Chanyeol realized whose scene this was.

“Zitao!” Chanyeol called. “Z-... Crap, what was his family name?” Digging his phone out of his pocket, Chanyeol hurriedly scrolled through his photos, looking for the screenshot of the obituary that he had saved.

He found it just as the engine rumbled to life, and came around the side of the ghostly car. Sure enough, a young man with neatly trimmed black hair and dazed, emotionless eyes was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Huang Zitao!” Chanyeol yelled. All he got was a blink and the engine revving. Moving around towards the nose of the car, Chanyeol leaned over the hood and waved his arms wildly, yelling at the top of his lungs. “Wake up, Huang Zitao!”

Zitao blinked, and his eyes came into focus. His expression went from empty to confused in the space of only a few seconds, an Chanyeol saw his lips form around the word ‘what?’

Chanyeol tried to bang on the windshield, but his hand went right through it, like it wasn’t there. “Get out of the car!”

It did the trick. Zitao seemed to suddenly realize his predicament, and he reached for the key to turn the vehicle off. Chanyeol saw him turn it, and even pull the key out of the vehicle entirely - but the engine didn’t shut off.

Wide-eyed, Chanyeol watched helplessly as Zitao tried the door handle. The door was locked, and when Zitao tried to unlock it, he could not, as if it was stuck, or something was holding it down. Quickly, Zitao shuffled over to the passenger side and tried that one, but of course, it was locked, too.

He looked up at Chanyeol with wide, frightened eyes.

“Okay, Chanyeol, think,” Chanyeol muttered. Louder, he called, “Can you break the window?” complete with an illustrative gesture.

Hauling in a shaky breath, Zitao nodded, and positioned himself sideways on the seat bench seat. He pulled both knees up to his chest, aimed at the driver’s side window, and kicked out hard.

His feet rebounded long before they even came close to the window, like he’d hit some kind of force field. With a cry of pain, Zitao collapsed onto the seat, instinctively grabbing at his own ankles.

“Are you okay?” Chanyeol called automatically. Zitao had tears in his eyes, but he nodded, and moved as if to try again. 

Before he could, though, the nearest seat belt unravelled itself, raised up like a snake, wrapped around Zitao’s neck, and yanked him down onto the seat. Gasping, Zitao dug his fingers into the webbing, but he couldn’t get it to move.

“No!” Chanyeol lunged automatically, lunging towards him with his hands outstretched before the fact that _the car wasn’t real_ sunk into his mind. With a yelp, he fell through the windshield, through Zitao’s struggling form, and through the rest of the car, and landed hard on the cement floor. Scrapes burned up his forearms and palms. “Ow, fuck!”

He went to push himself back up - but his shoulders banged painfully into something that clanged. Shocked, he looked up, and found himself looking at the backside of a tire. A very _solid_ tire.

The car was suddenly real, so real he could feel the heat, feel the rumble of the engine in the concrete below.

After a moment in which he froze and gaped stupidly, Chanyeol got his wits back and scrambled forward, out from under the car. It was a tight fit, and his arms, knees and chest got further scraped, leaving a trail of tattered clothing fibers and bloody epidermis behind, but he managed to get out and back on his feet.

It was true. The car was solid - Chanyeol put his hands on the sleekly polished body, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. And inside the car, Zitao looked just as solid, and his struggling was growing weaker.

Okay. It was just the same as breaking down a boarded-up door, right? Except higher up. But he was tall, it would be fine. Don’t lose your balance, Yeol.

Chanyeol stepped back, wound up, and kicked. Glass shattered all over Zitao, who flinched away instinctively as best he could under seatbelt assault. Kicking once more to get a large shard of glass unstuck from the frame, Chanyeol reached into the car and tried to pry the seatbelt off.

No such luck - there was definitely something otherworldly holding it tight. Zitao’s skin was sweaty and clammy under his hands, and his lips were starting to go blue.

Chanyeol whipped around, looking for a solution. His head felt light, woozy. Of course - if the car was real, so was the exhaust quickly filling the garage. He didn’t have much time.

In the corner, he spotted a basket of rusted garden tools. He leapt for it and yanked out the pruning shears. It took a few good squeezes to break through the rust and get them to open properly. They were dulled with age, but hopefully they would be enough.

Racing back to the car, Chanyeol reached in and hauled Zitao upright as best he could. It took a moment to maneuver the shears into the broken window, and another moment to get one end slid between the seatbelt and Zitao’s skin. Blood welled up where the rusted steel bit in, and Chanyeol thought he felt the car engine roar like a goddamn lion, but he was too focused to really process it. He squeezed hard, pounding the handles of the shears together with all his strength.

The seat belt snapped, and Zitao gasped with his entire body, going limp. Immediately, he began to cough, hacking up spittle that was laced red.

Chanyeol reached for him. “Zitao, come on! We have to get out!”

Wordlessly, Zitao nodded, and shakily scooted himself closer to the window. Chanyeol dropped the clippers and hooked his bloody forearms under Zitao’s armpits. Zitao pushed, Chanyeol pulled, and together they got him through the window and out of the car.

Zitao’s bare feet hit the glass-strewn ground, and he immediately cried out and buckled. Chanyeol grabbed him, swinging Zitao’s arm up over his shoulders and wrapping his own around Zitao’s waist. Together, they hobbled for the garage door.

Which still wouldn’t open, of course.

Chanyeol didn’t even stop to swear at the house; he just leaned Zitao against the wall nearby and turned to the side. Behind him, the car engine roared ominously.

“Oh, shut up,” Chanyeol growled, and smashed the lovely picture window that faced the front driveway.

It took work to get Zitao through the window. He was a strong, athletic guy, but he was heavily winded, and it was pretty clear there was something wrong with his ankles; he’d either sprained or fractured them when he’d kicked at the car window. Eventually, though, they they were both through, and Chanyeol motioned expressively until Zitao climbed up on his back, allowing Chanyeol to carry him away.

Finally, they were away from the garage, headed towards the front door. Chanyeol carefully dropped Zitao on the front steps, and then collapsed next to him, his head spinning.

The sounds of a revving engine suddenly stopped. From behind him, Chanyeol heard the grandfather clock faintly striking six PM, and heaved a sigh. “It’s over,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

“I…” Still panting, Zitao looked at him incredulously. “I have _so many questions._ ”

Chanyeol couldn’t help it, he cracked up laughing. Eyes widening, Zitao stared at him like he was a madman. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Chanyeol gasped. “It’s the adrenaline. I know you do.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I’m Chanyeol. The year is 2019. And, uh… You’re a ghost.”

Zitao blinked at him. “I just nearly died at least three different ways and I probably have both fractured ankles and esophageal damage,” he said scathingly. His voice was pretty hoarse, and there was a distinct accent around his words. “Can you, perhaps, cool it with the sarcasm?”

The humor drained from Chanyeol’s face. “It’s not sarcasm,” he said, more quietly. “Sorry, I should know better than to be flippant right now. It really is 2019, and you’re… you’ve been dead for close to sixty years.”

Thick, dark brows furrowed. “What?”

So Chanyeol showed him the obituary screenshot on his phone. Like Jongin, the sight of the futuristic device convinced Zitao as much as the words on the screen.

His eyes fluttered closed, and he said something in Chinese, something clearly swearing.

Chanyeol’s heart did a sick little swoop in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

“What the hell even happened?” Zitao said. “I don’t remember getting into the car, I don’t remember turning it on. I’m not a _moron,_ I know what that could do to you.” His expression compressed. “Is that what...?”

Chanyeol nodded. “I think the house itself turns on people,” he murmured. Zitao looked increasingly upset, so Chanyeol put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in. As with Jongin, Zitao melted into his side, reassuringly solid and warm and _real._ “You aren’t the first ghost I’ve pulled out of their own death scene.”

Turning towards him, Zitao winced as his ankles were jostled. “So are you like… A ghost hunter? Some kind of medium?”

The question caught Chanyeol off-guard. “No, I’m… a handyman. I do home improvement.”

Zitao stared at him incredulously. “...Like breaking windows?”

Chanyeol’s lips twitched. “It was a weird place to put a window, anyway.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Zitao started to giggle. Helpless, hysterical giggling, the kind that happens when everything is so stupid and overwhelming that there isn’t anything else to do. Chanyeol held him and let him laugh, letting the sound ease his raw nerves.

Eventually, Zitao calmed down. Silence came over them.

“I should probably go find a doctor,” Zitao said eventually, “but there is something telling me that I can’t leave. Is that the house? Is it keeping me here?”

Chanyeol bit his lip. “I’d guess it’s because you’re actually a ghost,” he said apologetically.

“I’m awfully achy to be a ghost,” Zitao shot back.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Chanyeol looked down at his own bloody arms. He should really clean the wounds out. “The other ghost that I… Stopped. He eventually saw a light, and walked towards it.”

Zitao blinked. “Oh,” he said. “How… how long did it take?”

Chanyeol shrugged. “About an hour, give or take.”

“Oh,” Zitao said again, and they lapsed once more into silence. After a minute, he said, “I feel like I should ask you about the future, or… or something, but knowing I basically only have an hour left to live, it’s kind of hard to care.” He looked up. “You don’t know what happened to my family, do you?”

“They lived in the house for about four more years,” Chanyeol said, “and then they sold it. The other ghost I’ve met, he was the son of the family who bought it from yours.”

Zitao cocked his head. “Is it always sons?” he asked.

“I think it might be.”

“What about you?” Zitao said, putting his hand carefully on an undamaged part of Chanyeol’s arm. “You’re someone’s son, aren’t you in danger?”

It was a question Chanyeol had spent quite a bit of time pondering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s hard to tell how much of the blood I’ve spilled in this house is caused by some malevolent force, and how much of it is just the normal hazards of doing construction on a house this old. I don’t _think_ it’s outright attacked me, yet, and… Not everything in the house is bad, you know?” He glanced up towards the east side of the building, even though he couldn’t see the tower from this angle. “The ghosts are all trapped in their own nightmares. They’re innocents, they’re not purposely trying to hurt anyone.”

“No, they aren’t,” Zitao agreed. “I… Memories are coming back to me, now. I remember dying.”

Chanyeol looked up sharply. Jongin had said the same, right before he’d faded.

“I remember what happened to me, and I remember reliving it over and over. The garage kept changing, like someone was moving things around, and I could see rain or snow or sun through the windows, but no matter what I did, the scene never changed. I always died.” He looked up and met Chanyeol’s eyes. “Until you.”

Chanyeol tried to smile. “You’re welcome, I guess?”

Zitao shook his head. “I did see a ghost, back when I was… Back before,” he murmured. “I thought I was imagining it. I saw a man running through the front door - I mean _through_ it. And that handprint, in the great room.”

“I’ve seen both of those,” Chanyeol said. “And more. I’m working on it, I’m going to free all of the ghosts in this house and stop this from happening to anyone else.”

“A very handy man, indeed,” Zitao said thoughtfully. He held his hand up in front of his face, and Chanyeol could see the driveway through it. “Wow, that is _very_ odd.”

Chanyeol swallowed. “I’d hoped you would have more time,” he said. “It hasn’t even been half an hour, yet.”

Zitao flashed him a smile. “My pain is already gone,” he said. “I guess ghosts can’t have broken ankles.” Chanyeol’s regret must have shown on his face, because Zitao’s expression softened. “It’s okay, Chanyeol,” he said. “The light is warm. I can tell it’s a better place than here.”

He stood. Chanyeol made to help him up, but his hands once more passed right through Zitao’s body.

“Be careful,” Zitao said. “And do something about your arms, you’re bleeding all over the stoop.”

He walked forward, and faded, leaving behind an ache in Chanyeol’s heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/unnie_bee), [askfm](https://ask.fm/unnie_bee), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/unnie_bee)!


	5. Chapter 5

 

_Tuesday, September 24, 2019_

 

Filled with new determination, Chanyeol spent Tuesday morning updating his color-coded charts both for the house renovation, and for the ghost hunting. Coloring Zitao’s line with green felt way better than he really thought it had a right to, but then again, why shouldn’t he be proud of it? He’d literally released a tormented soul to… well. Whatever came after.

Zitao asking him if he was a ghost hunter made Chanyeol wonder if there actually _were_ ghost hunters. Ghosts were real, and he obviously wasn’t the first person to run into them, so were there others? A support community online, maybe? He’d have to look. It had been a long time since he’d been a member of an online community, it might be nice to have something like that again. Not right now, though; he hadn’t planned to lose three full days of work and so he had a lot to catch up on.

While eating, he found a website that sold historically accurate replicas of antique hardware, and some coordinating pieces that had no reason to exist historically, like cast-iron light switch plates and outlet covers. He ordered a few items, washed his dishes, and settled in for the day to work.

He was over in the west wing today. The staircase was still collapsed and filled with debris, and even though he’d cleaned and wrapped his scraped arms the night before, the memory of his infected cuts made him decide not to try to clean out or repair that staircase while he had open wounds on his arms. Instead, he decided to begin really working on the first-floor rooms of the wing.

Now that he knew for sure that the wing had been sealed off back in the late 1940’s, he was extra careful to look before he stepped and not to touch anything too much. Unlike main body of the house, the west wing was a time capsule; anything in there could be priceless. Before doing anything else, he documented the entire floor carefully, taking extensive photos and video. Once that was done, he started the very tedious job of cleaning out debris and dusting.

Originally, Chanyeol had thought that he would restore the wing to the style of the early 19th century to match the rest of the house, but the more he found, the more he thought he might try to keep the wing preserved as it was. The decor and furnishings were a fascinating blend of older Joseon styles and that odd Western influence that was all through the house, but there was also a strong Japanese influence in this wing that seemed to not be present in the rest of the house. In the 1940’s, Korea had been just coming out from under Japanese rule - Chanyeol wondered if a later owner had purged the Japanese influence from the rest of the house after this wing had been sealed off.

Absorbed in his work and his internal musings over how each new piece might have come to be in the house, the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon flew by. Chanyeol made his way through the wing, from the center out towards the far end of the house, and reached the massive, two-story library at the end of it around midafternoon.

Three sides of the library, on two floors, were set with huge windows, alternating with the bookcases. Since the wing faced southwest, the afternoon sunlight was absolutely streaming in, illuminating the motes of dust in the air and glinting off of the gilded lettering on the spines of the old, leather-bound books. It was a downright magical sight.

“Damn,” Chanyeol said softly. “I’m so in love with this house.”

A balcony with a lovely, carved-wood railing ringed the entire second floor, accessed by a spiral staircase in the corner that matched the ones going up to both of the towers. This one was in considerably better shape than the others, and didn’t sway at all as Chanyeol climbed it.

“I could spend a lifetime just going through these books,” Chanyeol muttered. The shelves were stacked with newer books than the tower library, and probably at least ten times as many of them. He ran his fingers over the spines as he walked the length of the balcony, skipping lightly over the knick-knacks and curios that dotted the shelves at strategic intervals.

The bookcases were very tall, but even further above them was a decorative shelf that held still more knick-knacks, expensive objects d’art and the like. In the far corner, something was sticking off of the shelf at an odd angle. Chanyeol stared at it, trying to figure out what it might be. A leather folio, maybe? What was it doing up there?

His stepladder was down on the first floor and all the way back in the billiards room, and he wasn’t real sure he’d be able to get it up that narrow spiral staircase anyway. There was nothing else nearby to step on, and the folio was just barely out of reach, even if he jumped. Without thinking, Chanyeol put his foot on the second shelf of the bookcase, braced himself, and pushed up.

He put his hand on the folio just as the shelf gave out from underneath him. Yelping, Chanyeol grabbed for the bookcase as he fell, and then gasped as he felt the entire thing pull away from the wall.

Chanyeol went down, pulling the bookcase down on top of him. Books bombarded him like very heavy rain, followed immediately by the bookcase itself, solid and crushing. Chanyeol manage to get his arms up to protect his face, and cried out in pain as the weight of the bookcase landed right on his scraped up forearms.

A few more thuds and at least one clang, then the room finally fell silent. Winded, Chanyeol lay there for a moment, his arms straining to keep the heavy bookcase off his lungs before adrenaline kicked in. Chanyeol heaved, shoving upwards with all his strength, and got the bookcase to lift enough that he could scoot out from under it. It crashed to the floor where he had been, splintering in several places from the impact.

“Shit,” Chanyeol breathed, and collapsed to the floor to catch his breath. That had been _close_.

After a moment, he rolled up to sitting, wincing as he went, and took stock of his body. Nothing broken, as far as he could tell, but he was going to be one massive bruise in the morning, and he was bleeding in a few places, including across the cheek.

Sighing, Chanyeol clambered to his feet. “I am the _biggest_ moron,” he grumbled, and went to go get his first aid kit for like the sixth time since he’d moved in.

This time, he heard the voice before he saw the ghost. Male, unfamiliar, yelling. His eyes widening, Chanyeol hobbled faster, redirecting towards the voice.

To his surprise, he ended up in his own suite. There was a young man in the sitting room, backing away from the door as Chanyeol entered it. He appeared to be staring at Chanyeol in fear, but of course when Chanyeol moved to the side, the man’s gazed stayed right where it was.

“No,” the man was saying. “You won’t get me, you won’t. I only have to make it one more night.” He took another step back, and another, until he was pressed against the door leading out onto the patio. Chanyeol watched in fascination as the man’s hand found a doorknob that was no longer there, hiding the fact that he was turning it with his body, which was not hidden at all since his body was translucent.

Something _roared,_ making Chanyeol jump and look around frantically, but he didn’t see anything. The man pushed through the door - which didn’t move, of course - and bolted outside. Quickly, Chanyeol opened the real-life, modern sliding door that was in the same place and followed him.

He realized which scene this was the moment he passed through the door, because out there, just past the patio, the ceramic-tile pool was filled with ghostly water and translucent fish, shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. “Oh, fuck,” Chanyeol whispered, and stopped at the edge of the patio, not willing to get any closer.

The man actually made it entirely past the pool, sprinting for the woods behind the house, but he went down before he got much further than that. Not as if he had tripped - as if something had _taken_ him down. He screamed and scrabbled against the grass as he was dragged backwards too swiftly to be natural, his pants ripped and blood flowing from deep lacerations on his legs.

Chanyeol covered his mouth in horror, stepping back. He couldn’t see what was making those wounds, but he had a pretty good guess.

The ghost was sobbing. “No, no,” he cried, “I’m so close, let me go, _let me go, no!_ ”

He was dragged unceremoniously into the pool, which immediately began to freeze, frost creeping in from the edges and crawling up the sides of his body until he was completely consumed, his horrified expression frozen. The yard went silent but for the occasional distant chirp of birds, afternoon sunlight glinting off of the ice.

Behind him, Chanyeol heard the grandfather clock faintly chiming three PM.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol spent the evening nursing his wounds and thinking about what he’d seen. The frozen ghost had been wearing a modern enough outfit that Chanyeol couldn’t place his time frame, other than probably post-Joseon. His accent hadn’t been particularly old-timey, either, but nor did it sound modern and slang-filled, and it was definitely native Korean.

More interesting still were his actual words. Only one more night? One more night until what? He had spoken to whatever was chasing him with familiar language, but not in a friendly way, more as if he was being impertinent or insulting. How much had he known about the house, before it got the better of him?

It was the first indication Chanyeol had that maybe someone else, before him, had actively tried to figure out what was going on in the house. But the man hadn’t been successful - he’d ended up a victim, a ghost, just like all the others.

That was an unsettling thought. The idea that he was in danger, real, personal, _bodily_ danger had crossed his mind before, but tonight it felt closer than ever. The house was quiet tonight, no groaning in the walls or flickering lights or footsteps or screaming, but the darkness pressed in around him like a weight.

Chanyeol almost texted Amber, but the thought of how she would react to finding out about this latest accident stayed his hand. He also - shamefully - nearly texted Minho, wishing desperately just to hear his former lover’s voice, to listen to him talk about his day. But that wasn’t an option, so he fought the creeping unease back with his bright, modern LED lamps and his calming white noise, and told himself it wasn’t a worse feeling than anything he’d faced before.

The next day, right after his morning coffee, he made his way back to the west wing library, intending to clean up his mess from the day before. This time, he took his stepladder with him, and determinedly maneuvered it up the narrow spiral staircase, moving slowly due to the fact that his body was one big pounding ache.

Carefully, he stacked up the old books, trying to guess from the way they had fallen which ones had been shelved together and attempting to keep them in that order. When he went to lift the fallen bookcase back into place, Chanyeol found, to his surprise, that he could barely move it at all. He tried for a good few minutes, but it was just too heavy to lift by himself, at least while injured and sore. Eventually, he huffed and gave up, flopping to the ground next to the stack of books and the splintered bookcase. How had he not broken any bones yesterday when that thing fell on him?

A translucent, socked foot stepped into Chanyeol’s line of sight, and he jumped in startlement and yelped. Wide-eyed, he looked up, as a new ghost, someone he had never seen before, walked through the pile of books and the downed bookcase as if it wasn’t there.

Because it wasn’t. It was standing back up exactly where it had been yesterday, the broken shelf back in place and the books all neatly arranged, and Chanyeol had to blink at it for a long moment, wondering if he had finally lost his mind for real. But no - _his_ bookcase was still on the ground. The one against the wall was slightly translucent. A ghost bookcase.

Chanyeol scrambled to his feet. The ghost was nearly his height, dressed in elaborate hanbok but with his long hair loose around his shoulders, and carrying something in his hands. He looked around, as if to check if he was alone.

There was no sound, but the ghost startled as if he had heard one, and turned towards the door. “I will be there shortly!” he called out to no one.

He stepped up to the ghost bookcase and put one socked foot on the second shelf, and Chanyeol gasped. It was exactly the same motion Chanyeol had made the night before, right down to the way he gripped the finial on the corner of the bookcase in order to haul himself upward.

Chanyeol held his breath, fully expecting the young man to go right through the shelf, just as he had. But instead, the ghost only pulled himself up, and reached a very long arm upwards to place the object in his hand on the high shelf that was above the bookcases. The ghostly object settled right into the exact same space as the folio that was already on the corner of the shelf, hanging just a little bit over the edge.

_Then_ the shelf broke.

The young man yelled, and Chanyeol leapt forward instinctively, but of course there was nothing he could do. The bookcase crashed down, crushing the young man underneath it. 

Chanyeol turned away from the scene before the image could burn too deeply into his brain. The ghost had been higher up, hadn’t been able to get his arms up in front of him in time, and the top edge of the bookcase had come down right across his throat. He’d been killed instantly, his neck broken.

Very faintly, Chanyeol heard the grandfather clock chiming, and checked his watch. Quarter to nine in the morning. This was the last ghost on his list, then, the one he had heard the chime for but hadn’t seen.

He’d personally witnessed the deaths of ten different ghosts, now. As long as he didn’t think about it too hard, he could almost convince himself he was getting used to it.

Chanyeol looked up. The last thing this ghost had done was hide that folio. Why? What was up there? Carefully avoiding looking at the body - his nightmares were bad enough, thanks - Chanyeol went to go get his stepladder.

He was careful as he climbed, wary of anything else breaking or falling, but nothing happened and he was able to get the folio down from the high shelf. Judging by the dust, it did seem possible that it hadn’t been disturbed in at least a hundred years.

He left the stepladder - and the dead ghost - where it was, and took the folio back to his sitting room to peruse. Housework could wait.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol ended up spending the entire day going through the folio and cataloguing what he learned from it.

The folio contained, in essence, a journal, but in the form of letters, specifically _love_ letters, written by the young heir of a noble family to a servant that he was clearly enamoured with. The noble’s name was Oh Sehun, and Chanyeol quickly figured out two things - one, that Oh Sehun was the ghost he had seen in the library, and two, that he had never actually given these letters to or in any way confessed his feelings for the servant, likely because the servant was a man, named Do Kyungsoo.

The letters were dated for the late winter and spring of 1890, making them almost 130 years old. The Hangul was a bit flowery and old-fashioned, but readable, and Sehun’s tone wavered from conversational recounting of his mundane days, to overwrought and anguished professions of the love he was hiding, and everything in between.

There was a lot to sift through, but sift through it Chanyeol did, because it was interesting, and also because there were hints scattered throughout the letters that Sehun was experiencing hauntings himself. He mentioned odd occurrences several times, including one time that a sip of water had turned to blood in his mouth, only to turn back to water before his eyes after he spat it out. He mentioned a certain portrait over and over again, telling his silent audience about the chills he got up his spine when he looked at it and the way its eyes seemed to follow him as he crossed the room.

One letter was devoted to recounting an unsettling occurrence that matched Chanyeol’s first experience with the jumper ghost to the letter. Sehun had been woken by a scream and a crash, run down to the conservatory, and witnessed absolute carnage before the whole scene just… disappeared.

The more Chanyeol read, the more fascinated he became. Sehun’s voice came through very clearly in his letters, so clearly that Chanyeol could almost imagine him speaking the words. His aching, unrequited love, his struggle to figure himself out, and the way he talked about feeling isolated even amongst a crowd were all familiar to Chanyeol, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was getting to know Sehun, in some small way.

As time and the letters wore on, Sehun had started to see the tower ghost as well, though Sehun called him “the portrait man” instead, as he was apparently the same man as was depicted in the portrait Sehun found so terrifying. Chanyeol read about Sehun taking the portrait down and burning it, hoping to make the visions of a man long-dead stop, but it didn’t work. He mentioned being awoken by horrible, high-pitched screaming, he mentioned seeing bloody footprints crossing the front galleries, and he mentioned dreaming of being chased by a tiger.

Then, Chanyeol came to an entry marked _Saturday, May 10, 1890,_ whereupon in shaking hand and with tear marks blurring the ink in places, Sehun wrote a letter to Kyungsoo that began with _You are dead, and my heart has died along with you._

The letter was an outpouring, a young man raging on paper in a way he would not have been able to express out loud, and it wasn’t the most coherent. But, about halfway through the second page, Chanyeol realized exactly what he was reading, exactly who Kyungsoo was.

Kyungsoo was the servant in the kitchen, the one who had tripped and fallen upon the knife.

“They knew each other,” Chanyeol said out loud, startled by this revelation. “They lived in the house at the same time, they probably were _both_ being haunted and didn’t realize it.” How much differently would it have played out, if Sehun had confided in Kyungsoo the things he was seeing? Or would it have made any difference at all? “They were the same age,” he remembered. Sehun had made mention of that fact earlier, in the letter recounting his own 25th birthday. “Maybe they were the only young men of that age in the house.”

Opening his chart, Chanyeol added a column for age at death, and filled in what he knew. Jongin and Zitao had also both been 25, and Yixing, Lu Han and Jongdae had been 26.

Chanyeol was also 26. Was _that_ why he could see the ghosts, and no one else could?

Did it mean the house really was actively hunting him, after all?

He kept reading. The tone of Sehun’s letters changed, then, as he was writing not to a man who was alive but unreachable, but to a man who had passed. Almost as if the knowledge that Kyungsoo would never know how he felt had set him free, Sehun’s thoughts were poured out onto the page with impunity, and they brought Chanyeol himself to tears more than once.

Then, Sehun wrote that he had seen Kyungsoo’s ghost.

Chanyeol had to stop, look up, stare out the window for a moment while he let that sink in. Sehun had been in the kitchens at the wrong time, and he had witnessed Kyungsoo replaying his death. He’d watched the man he secretly loved die, right in front of him, and couldn’t stop it.

Shit. Chanyeol could hardly think of anything worse.

He kept reading, but there wasn’t actually much more. The last letter was dated May 27, 1890, and said little of interest other than to note that Sehun would be going away for a week beginning the next morning, and he would have to hide the letters as he could not risk taking them with him. Chanyeol looked at a calendar, and sure enough, the next day, May 28, had been a Wednesday.

“What the fuck is in this house,” Chanyeol muttered aloud. “What kind of evil lives here?”

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

The hardware Chanyeol had ordered arrived at his local hardware store that night, so the next morning Chanyeol went down to the town and picked up his order. He also grabbed a few more things he needed for the house, including half a dozen fire extinguishers, as the knowledge of how Jongdae had died had brought to his attention just exactly how flammable the old house was, even without ghostly intervention. 

The main bulk of the cleanup was done now, so Chanyeol wanted to start working on the actual restoration part, beginning with the front doors. As if the house had read his mind - could it do that? Chanyeol hoped not - when he got home, the rusted and partially rotted front doors were smeared with blood. A _lot_ of blood. Handprints, splatters, and scrawled lettering that spelled out HELP ME in English letters.

Standing on the front stairs, Chanyeol glared at it for a moment, waiting for the illusion to fade. When it didn’t, he swept his finger through the edge of the lettering. Yep, it was blood. Real blood, still wet.

“You’re not scary,” Chanyeol told the house sternly, “and you’re _not_ funny.” 

He went inside and grabbed his toolbox and a bucket of soapy water. When he came back outside, the blood was still there, but so, to Chanyeol’s surprise, was the tower ghost, leaning against the wall of the house in an ornately embroidered Chinese changshan and staring out towards the driveway.

“Good morning,” Chanyeol said automatically.

The tower ghost’s eyes flicked up towards his. In the bright morning sunlight, he seemed more translucent than usual, his eyes little more than black pits in his face. His lips twitched, a shadow of a smile, but he didn’t answer Chanyeol. He only went back to looking out over the front yard.

Well, alright then. Chanyeol decided to leave him be and got to work, taking the front doors off their hinges and carrying them out to lay them on the grass. The blood looked stark in direct sunlight, viscous and gross, and Chanyeol wasted no time scrubbing it off, along with probably decades of dirt and mold.

He glanced up a few times, just to check that the ghost was still there, but after a while he kind of forgot about him and got absorbed in his work. The doors looked bad on the surface, but they were solid, carved hardwood, and underneath the dirt and the rot they were still in relatively good shape. 

By the time he’d gotten them both clean on both sides, the soapy water in his bucket was an awful brownish red. “What is this place’s obsession with blood, anyway?” Chanyeol muttered to himself.

“Blood is life,” the tower ghost murmured.

Chanyeol looked up. The ghost had moved, sitting now on the stairs just in front of Chanyeol, and was watching him with disguised curiosity. His robes were ornate, formal, but his posture was relaxed, even sprawling. He was a very long man.

“Blood is life, huh?” Chanyeol put the bucket aside and started working on taking off the old, rusted hardware. “But whose blood is it? It has to be coming from somewhere.” He glanced up. “Yours?”

The tower ghost spread his hands eloquently. “I have none to give, anymore.”

Snorting, Chanyeol nodded. “Guess that’s true. Nothing in here has blood to give, anymore.” Then, he blinked. “Except… me?”

The ghost didn’t answer.

“I injured myself on the boards when I broke into the conservatory,” Chanyeol thought aloud. “Amber cut me with the knife that same night. I fell through the stairs and ripped up my leg, I scraped my arms saving Zitao.”

“You are bleeding still,” the ghost said quietly.

Chanyeol automatically put his hand to his cheek, where he’d gotten cut when the bookcase fell on him. Sure enough, a bit of red came away on his fingers. He glanced up at the ghost. “It’s _my_ blood?”

No answer, save for a significant raise of the eyebrows.

“My blood,” Chanyeol muttered. “Freaky.”

As he worked, Chanyeol considered that. He stripped the finish from the doors, and wondered if his multitude of injuries was really just his usual clumsiness, or if there was something more to it. He began to cut away the rotted parts of the wood, and he thought about how each time he bled, the visions in the house became stronger, and he saw more scenes, more completely.

A chill shivered down his side, and Chanyeol looked up as the tower ghost sank gracefully to the grass beside him. “What are you doing?” the ghost asked.

It was so rare that the ghost showed any kind of interest in Chanyeol’s activities that it took him a moment to respond. “I’m restoring the doors,” Chanyeol said. “Once all the rot is cut out, I’ll use a wood filler to repair the holes, and then refinish the doors and put on new hardware.” He pointed at his supplies.

Black eyes regarded him curiously. “People come to change the manor sometimes,” the ghost said. “They knock parts down, or close them off, or add on something new. But no one has fixed what is damaged.”

Chanyeol got the feeling he wasn’t talking just about the doors. “I think _anything_ can be fixed,” he said firmly. “If you have the right tools.”

Slowly, the tower ghost smiled. A real smile, that showed gums and crinkled up his eyes, and for the first time, he looked _young_. Chanyeol, suddenly and strongly, wanted to give him a hug.

He couldn’t, but he reached anyway, holding out his hand palm-up. His smile fading, the ghost reached out his own, matching up their fingertips. His palm was less square than Chanyeol’s, his fingers longer, but they were well-matched hands, and Chanyeol found himself wishing they could entwine their fingers.

Chanyeol went back to working. It should have been creepy, or at least awkward, to be working with a ghost looking over your shoulder, but he found that it was… kind of nice. He kept glancing to the side to check, and the ghost seemed actually interested in what he was doing, so Chanyeol started to talk. Just casually, just recounting a stupid story of a funny thing that had happened while he was working on another door at another job, but the ghost watched him, and listened, and even, after a while, began to ask questions.

They passed an hour like that, with Chanyeol doing ninety percent of the talking and the ghost asking a soft, terse question every once in a while, and it almost felt like having real company visit. Chanyeol even stopped noticing the chill of the ghost’s nearness after a while.

Eventually, the ghost looked up at the sky. “It will rain tomorrow,” he said softly.

Chanyeol cocked his head. “It isn’t supposed to rain tomorrow.”

Two chilly, translucent fingers dipped into the center of Chanyeol’s palm, and traced up the still-healing scrapes on his forearms. Chanyeol’s shudder was full-body. “It will,” the ghost repeated. “It always does.” He smiled wryly, and faded away, leaving behind nothing but a dissipating fog.

Clenching his fingers against the lingering cold, Chanyeol bit his lip. “I guess I better make sure to get this done today, then,” he told the empty air. “Just in case you’re right.”

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Repairing the doors took the rest of the day, as Chanyeol had to wait hours for the wood filler to dry before he could sand it down and carve it to match the original shape of the door. Normally, he would work with music, but his mind was so filled with questions and theories about the house that today he didn’t need the distraction.

It was getting late, though, and Chanyeol was getting hungry, so he hung the doors back in place with their new, not-rusted hinges, making note to come back to re-stain and seal them the next time he got a clear, warm day. As he was screwing the new hinges into place, the heavy door slipped a little, and the cast iron hinge bit into his fingertip.

“Ow.” Chanyeol immediately and instinctively put his finger in his mouth, pressing his tongue to the cut. The taste of his own blood made him scowl. “Aren’t you sick of drinking my blood yet, you vampire house?” he asked peevishly, covering the flood of fearful adrenaline with a wall of snark. “I need it more than you do.”

Determined not to give in to what was essentially bullying by an inanimate object, and wanting to get his doors functional again before nightfall in any case, Chanyeol went back to hanging the doors. A bit of blood from his finger smeared over the door as he did so, and this time, Chanyeol distinctly felt a ripple in the wood under his hand.

He stopped, wide-eyed. Just how literal was the phrase _blood is life_ in this situation? Was his blood _literally_ fueling the haunting?

Chanyeol looked at his own still-healing arms, and something clicked into place that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized before. Zitao’s scene had become real, right on top of him, the moment he had hit the concrete floor.

The moment he’d shed blood.

“That’s it,” he breathed aloud. He hadn’t been able to touch Jongin until the time of his death had passed, and he hadn’t been able to touch any of the other ghosts at all. He couldn’t pull Yixing from the water, he couldn’t stop Lu Han from running out the door or Kyungsoo from tripping or Sehun from falling, because he couldn’t touch them. But Zitao, he _could._ Because he’d bled on the floor of the garage.

If he bled into the bathwater, would Yixing become real? Could Chanyeol save him that way? It would mean feeding more blood to the house, which was probably a terrible idea, but if there was a chance of stopping Yixing from drowning…

There was only one way to find out. It was Thursday, exactly one week after the first time he’d seen Yixing, so tonight was a good bet to try again. Maybe, if he was fast, he could save Lu Han tonight as well.

Chanyeol finished re-hanging the door and went to make dinner, his mind spinning with plans. He wouldn’t have a lot of time, especially not if the two scenes played out back-to-back the way they did last week, so he’d have to be prepared.

By 9:30, he had everything set up and was waiting in Yixing’s bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet and jiggling his knee with nerves. Towels were spread around the bathtub, ready to catch any splashes and wrap Yixing as soon as he was out, and there was a precision craft knife with a small but sharp blade sitting on the sink. Considering how unpredictable the house could be, Chanyeol hadn’t wanted to give it any kind of real weapon.

He’d also brought in a clock, and set it on a shelf in easy view. If the pattern held, they would not be safe from the house’s influence until the moment the grandfather clock struck, which for Yixing was ten PM. Lu Han was quarter-past ten, so Chanyeol would not have enough time to soothe Yixing if he wanted to save Lu Han as well. As soon as Yixing was safe, he would have to bolt down the stairs to catch Lu Han before he ran out the front doors.

Unfortunately, he could do nothing until Yixing appeared. This meant that Chanyeol could only watch the seconds tick by, excruciatingly slowly, his heart rate climbing with each minute that drew closer.

At 9:46, just like last week, the bathroom door opened by itself, and Chanyeol sat up straight. “Yixing?” he called. “Zhang Yixing?”

No response, not yet. After a few long, breathless seconds, the door closed again, and locked.

“Okay,” Chanyeol exhaled. “Here we go.”

The bathtub began to fill. It was so freaking strange to know exactly how this scene would play out, like a movie he’d seen before, like the most accurate deja-vu. Chanyeol caught a rustle of movement that wasn’t there, and he stood, his eyes darting around the bathroom.

He saw a shirt dropping to the floor first, before the hand that dropped it. The shirt disappeared, but the hand didn’t, and Yixing shimmered into view, no more than a shadow at first.

“Zhang Yixing,” Chanyeol said.

Yixing paused with his hands on his beltline, his brow furrowing. He didn’t look up. Chanyeol stepped in front of him, attempting to get his attention, but Yixing shrugged and continued undressing.

Chanyeol tried again, calling his name repeatedly. It was clear he was having _some_ effect - Yixing would pause, or look around, or frown as if he heard something, but obviously the effect wasn’t really strong enough.

Yixing stepped forward to get into the tub, and the ghostly water bubbling around his calves made Chanyeol abruptly realize that Yixing likely just couldn’t hear him over the sound of the water. He took a deep breath and _bellowed_ out Yixing’s name.

Freezing in place, wide-eyed, Yixing stopped and looked around. “Who is there?” he asked, softly accented. His eyes scanned the room, looking right through Chanyeol. Chanyeol stepped forward and put his hand right into Yixing’s shoulder, gritting his teeth against the cold, and immediately Yixing’s eyes locked onto his face, and he jumped, startled. “What? Who - “

He didn’t finish the thought. A wave of water wrapped around his knees, and he went down, dragged under the surface.

“Fuck!” Chanyeol reached, but of course it was no good, he couldn’t grip what wasn’t really there. “Fuck, okay, okay,” and he grabbed the craft knife and sliced into the tip of his pinky finger before he could think about it too hard.

It was a small cut, in a pre-planned place, because he wasn’t about to sacrifice more blood to the house than he absolutely had to. Tossing the knife into the sink to keep it out of his way, Chanyeol plunged his bleeding hand into the bathwater.

Immediately, cold and clammy turned to hot and wet. Steam filled his vision and bathwater splashed across his face and chest. Acting fast, Chanyeol grabbed Yixing under the armpits and hauled with all his strength.

The water was _definitely_ holding Yixing down, and his bare skin was slippery enough that Chanyeol had trouble keeping his grip. His hands slid, and he fell back onto his ass, losing Yixing entirely. Swearing, he scrambled back up to his knees and tried again.

This time, by bracing one foot against the wall, Chanyeol was able to get enough leverage to lift Yixing’s upper torso completely out of the water. Yixing gasped and spluttered, pulling in a few precious breaths before he was pulled back out of Chanyeol’s hands and under the surface.

“Oh no you don’t,” Chanyeol snarled. “You can’t have him, not this time.” He grabbed a bath towel off of the floor and plunged it into the water, looping it around Yixing’s back. Wrapping the ends tightly around his hands, Chanyeol _yanked_.

Yixing came up out of the water, arms flailing. One of his hands locked around the soaked towel and the other found the side of the tub. He pushed, and Chanyeol pulled, and with a very large splash, Yixing came all the way out of the tub and tumbled over the side, landing right on top of Chanyeol and immediately coughing up a gout of bathwater right into his face.

Spluttering, Chanyeol rolled Yixing off of him and sat up, furiously wiping the water from his face. He had only a bare second to do so when the showerhead - which shouldn’t even be _functional_ \- suddenly turned towards them and started spraying boiling hot water all over the room.

Yixing screamed and tried to cover himself, instinctively grabbing for the towels around him. Chanyeol lurched to his feet, gritting his teeth against the onslaught, and yanked the ancient shower curtain closed to block the spray.

“Get out of here!” he yelled, spreading his arms to their full wingspan as the curtain tried to pull itself open again. Wide-eyed, Yixing scrambled to his feet with a towel in each hand, and made for the door.

“It won’t open!” Yixing called back, sounding terrified.

Chanyeol glanced at the clock. 9:57. “We only have to make it for three more minutes,” he gasped.

The shower curtain ripped out of his hands, and Chanyeol only barely managed to turn his face away in time to keep it from getting scalded. A towel landed on his head, covering him, and Chanyeol yelled and grabbed at it, but realized just in time that Yixing had thrown it over him to _protect_ him, and it wasn’t another attack by the house.

Keeping the towel over his head meant that he was moving blind, but it was better than getting burned, so Chanyeol left it there and groped along the side of the bathtub until he could go in under the spray and find the tap. He twisted, but it was no use; the bombarding water didn’t let up.

An overheated hand wrapped around Chanyeol’s wrist and pulled him away; Chanyeol found himself being tugged down to the floor in the corner. He turned his face towards Yixing’s soaked hair as Yixing buried his own in Chanyeol’s chest, and they huddled under the towel as the boiling water soaked through it. Chanyeol could feel that his right ear had gotten burned, at minimum. His arms looked pretty bad too, and Yixing’s bared skin was mottled red.

It was a very long three minutes, but eventually, the water shut off, all by itself. Chanyeol peeked out from under their makeshift shelter and glanced around, just to make sure the bathroom didn’t have any more surprises.

The clock chimed ten, and the bathroom door unlocked with an audible click.

“Thank fuck,” Chanyeol breathed. He pulled back enough to look at Yixing, who was more than a little bit shell-shocked. “Get out of here and dry off, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He grabbed the knife from the sink and bolted for the foyer. Making sure to hold the knife out to his side and with the blade pointed away from him, he jogged down the stairs as quickly as he could safely manage, and stood facing down the east gallery, waiting for Lu Han to come running towards him.

The hall was silent. Chanyeol waited, heart pounding and chest heaving, but Lu Han did not appear. No screaming, no running, no crash.

“What are you doing?”

Chanyeol looked up, and saw that Yixing was standing at the top of the stairs, holding a dry towel around his waist and watching him curiously.

“What time is it?” Chanyeol asked. He had taken his watch off earlier in anticipation of getting wet, and his phone was upstairs in the bedroom for the same reason.

Yixing looked around, and ducked into one of the other bedrooms to find a clock. “It’s ten-seventeen,” he said.

The clock hadn’t chimed. There was no way he hadn’t gotten down here in time, so that meant Lu Han just hadn’t appeared at all. “Weird,” Chanyeol muttered. He capped his craft knife and pocketed it. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Half-drowned and confused,” Yixing said honestly. He gestured at the general surroundings. “Where am I? This is my grandfather’s house, but it doesn’t look…” He trailed off. “It’s wrong.”

Sighing, Chanyeol beckoned him back down the stairs. Yixing came towards him, not seeming to care too much that he was mostly naked, alone with a complete stranger. Given the evening he’d just had, Chanyeol didn’t care much either.

“I’m sorry that you have to find this out this way,” he began, and then told him the whole story.

Ten minutes later, Yixing was sitting on Chanyeol’s new couch, dressed in Chanyeol’s old clothes, and staring at his own knees.

“...I’m sorry,” Chanyeol offered again, as he finished putting ointment on his burns.

Yixing nodded, silently accepting his condolences. “How long do I have?” he murmured. “You said the others, they disappeared after a bit.”

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol said truthfully. “The first stuck around for about an hour, but the second one, only half an hour.” He glanced at his watch, back on his wrist now that he’d changed. “It’s already been longer than that.”

“I see.” Turning himself on the couch, Yixing pulled his feet up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Everything looks so different,” he murmured. “It’s been eighty-five years, that’s _so_ long. Are there flying cars now?”

Smiling, Chanyeol started telling him about the future, _his_ future. No flying cars, but cell phones, internet, satellite radio, the International Space Station. Yixing seemed fascinated, but after a while he also seemed tired, faded. Not _literally_ faded, not the way Jongin and Zitao had gone translucent right before they moved on, just the exhausted kind. Chanyeol, who had been going to bed relatively early for the past few weeks, was starting to feel pretty faded himself.

“It’s nearing midnight,” he said finally. “You’re still…”

Yixing smiled at him, though it was wry. “Still here?”

“Yeah.” Chanyeol cocked his head. “You seem exhausted. Should we just go to bed?”

Biting his lip, Yixing considered it. “If I have only a few more minutes to exist,” he said, “it seems a waste to sleep through them. But then again, if I pass on in my sleep, that’s better than the first time, right?” He glanced up. “Can I stay with you?”

“Of course,” Chanyeol said, without a second’s hesitation. The thought of Yixing trying to fall asleep alone, in the house that killed him, when death could come for him again at any moment? No, absolutely not. “Bathroom’s through there.” He’d said it without thinking, then blinked. “If, uh. If you even need that kind of thing anymore.”

Yixing shrugged. “Only one way to find out, right?” He got up and went through the doorway.

It turned out that yes, Yixing’s body could use the facilities. Chanyeol thought that was pretty significant - didn’t that mean that Yixing was really _real_ , physically as well as spiritually? That Chanyeol had somehow yanked him forward in time, or made his body real when he’d saved his spirit, or something?

A question for another time, if it mattered at all. They curled up in bed. It should have been odd to sleep with someone again, should have been awkward, but Chanyeol found it to be more comforting than anything else. It had been a rough few weeks.

Hesitantly, Yixing reached out. “Do you mind if…?” 

Chanyeol pulled him close, as much for his own sake as Yixing’s. Yixing’s head nestled perfectly against his shoulder, his arm wrapped around Chanyeol’s ribs, and he sighed, relaxing. Chanyeol turned his face in towards Yixing’s damp hair and did the same.

“Thank you,” Yixing whispered. “It’s only that - I don’t know if -”

“I understand,” Chanyeol said, even though he really didn’t. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

They talked for a bit more in the dark, but eventually, both of them drifted off, and Chanyeol slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Cold hands shook Chanyeol awake.

“Chanyeol,” Yixing said, “Chanyeol, come on.”

Groggily, Chanyeol blinked his eyes open, and squinted blearily at Yixing. The light coming through the uncurtained windows was lightening, just bright enough that Chanyeol could see Yixing’s form was fading in the ghostlike way now.

“Shit.” He yanked himself upright. “What time is it? What -”

Yixing tried to soothe him, but his hands couldn’t quite connect with Chanyeol’s skin anymore. “It’s time for me to go,” he said. “I remember everything now, and I can see the light. But I wanted to say goodbye.”

Fuck. “Thank you for waking me,” Chanyeol said sincerely. “It would have sucked to wake up and just find you gone.”

Smiling, Yixing nodded. “And thank you, for saving me,” he said softly. “But I remember now. Listen, this is important.” Chanyeol blinked. “You are not the first person to save me,” Yixing said. “A man a few decades ago, I don’t know how long it was. He saved me, too.” Yixing’s expression was pained. “But he didn’t make it, and when the house got him, all of us that he had saved were pulled right back here again. Chanyeol - if you’re going to save us, you have to save _all_ of us, or -”

He suddenly took a step back, as if pulled, and looked over his shoulder. “Alright,” he said. “I’m coming.” Flashing Chanyeol one last smile and a small wave, he turned, and immediately disappeared.

Rubbing his eyes, Chanyeol stared at the empty space that he’d left behind for quite a while, until the room was streaked with the first rays of sunlight.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Those first lovely golden rays of sunlight didn’t last long, and by the time Chanyeol was sitting down with his coffee, rain was pouring down and thunder crackled through the air.

“You were right,” Chanyeol murmured to the house at large. “Guess I’m going to spend today hunting down leaks.”

The roof was in relatively poor shape, and finding, photographing, and putting buckets under leaks kept him quite busy. As the day wore on, though, Chanyeol found himself having to pause because his heartbeat would suddenly spike, or he’d start having trouble breathing, or his hands would begin to shake. There was no rhyme or reason to it, no external trigger that he could see, and the thought that the house itself was having such a strong effect on him with no other provocation was more than a little bit disturbing.

Midafternoon, he was actually up a ladder in the suites above the garages when an unprompted wave of complete terror washed over him. Immediately dropping his hammer, Chanyeol gasped for air, his pulse racing as his chest constricted. The ladder wobbled, and Chanyeol grabbed it with one hand and steadied himself against the wall with the other, his vision blurring.

Warm, thick liquid dripped over his fingers. Jerking his hand back, Chanyeol looked, and saw blood seeping down the walls, dripping from the leaky roof overhead to splatter on his arms. It was the house, he realized, it wasn’t real, no matter how real it felt. Swallowing down the nausea climbing up his throat, Chanyeol got himself down the ladder as carefully as he could manage with shaking limbs.

“Is this a scene?” Chanyeol asked out loud, speaking directly to the house. “Is there another ghost?” It felt like a dumb question - this didn’t feel the same as a trapped ghost’s death scene at all. For one thing, those didn’t usually come with forced panic attacks. It had been a while since Chanyeol had had a panic attack, but he knew what they felt like. This one, though, felt wrong, it felt… _foreign_. Like he was feeling someone else’s panic, not his own.

Forcing himself to take deep, even breaths through his nose, Chanyeol went for the door. It was dripping in blood, but Chanyeol grit his teeth and turned the knob anyway, and thankfully, the door opened.

A wave of chill hit him, like walking out of the house in the dead of winter. Chanyeol shuddered and immediately folded his arms across his chest to conserve heat, his breath puffing visibly in front of him. The walls here were also dripping with blood, all down the hall as far as Chanyeol could see, enough of it that he could smell copper even through the cold.

One of the doors down the hall banged open, startling Chanyeol and sending his heartbeat racing again. It was the second-floor study, the one with the bookcase that hid the stairs up to the east tower. Something told him that he didn’t want to look in that room, but he knew that feeling was probably the house’s doing, too, so he forced himself forward.

A flash of translucence caught his eye before he even reached the doorway, and as he peered around the frame, it solidified into the lanky form of the tower ghost, stumbling into the heavy antique desk as if he had been thrown. He was wearing Western-style trousers and a torn, half-unbuttoned shirt, and his hair was loose around his face, wild. Most strikingly, his throat was clean and whole, no wound marring the smooth skin.

The ghost whipped around, but his eyes slid right past Chanyeol, tracking something else as it entered the room, something Chanyeol couldn’t see. His fear was so palpable, Chanyeol pressed his hand to his own heart in a vain attempt to stop it from pounding.

“Don’t touch me,” the tower ghost snarled.

Immediately, his head snapped to the side, and a long cut opened up on his cheek, blood welling up. Something had hit him. “Stop it!” Chanyeol yelled, but neither the ghost nor whatever was attacking him paid him any mind. Without knowing the ghost’s name, Chanyeol wasn’t sure he would even be able to snap him out of it - all he could do was watch.

The tower ghost straightened, and his mouth opened, but he got out no more than a gasp and a widening of eyes before his arms were jerked back behind him. He rose onto his toes, struggling, and from his movements Chanyeol could tell he was being held, pinned in place.

A crack rang through the air, and another rip opened in his shirt, revealing a new, bloody laceration down the right side of his chest. Was he being _whipped?_ By whom? Was this a new torture the house was inflicting upon him, or… 

Was it a memory of something that had really happened during his life?

Yanking his body against the grip of his captor, the ghost managed to glare even through the tears of pain in his eyes, and snapped out something in Chinese that sounded vulgar. He waited, still glaring, as if for a response Chanyeol couldn’t hear, and then he spat on the floor, a little ways in front of himself. “You are sick,” he snapped. “How _dare_ you call yourself Father.”

Another crack, and a whip-mark opened across his skin right next to the first. The ghost jerked, and so did the entire room; shelved rattled and a few of the books on them toppled over. Wide eyed, Chanyeol attempted to take a step back, to get himself further away from the doorway, but his feet moved forward instead, actively disobeying him.

“No,” Chanyeol gasped, even as he stepped through the door. It swung shut behind him. “ _Fuck_.”

Once the door latched, Chanyeol’s legs came under his own control again, and he stepped back, pressing his back to the door. The chilly temperatures were starting to warm, the dim, greyish light from the storm outside giving way to golden-orange, and Chanyeol smelled smoke. He glanced over at the fireplace - the _lit_ fireplace.

The ghost’s eyes were wide. “No, I won’t,” he said. A pause. The ghost was solid enough that Chanyeol could see the color draining from his face, despite still being able to make out the windowpanes through his head. “I _will not._ I would rather _die!_ ”

The shelves rattled ominously, and Chanyeol startled as the by-now disgustingly familiar feeling of old blood dripped down his hands. He jerked away from the door, instinctively rubbing his palms against his jeans. The walls were all dripping, puddles were forming on the old rugs, even the rain pounding on the windows was turning to blood. The smell was nearly unbearable, and Chanyeol fought not to gag.

Something glowing hot lifted from the fireplace, like a tiny sun floating through the air. It solidified, stretching out, and horror filled Chanyeol’s mind when he realized what it was. 

A cast iron poker, the tip red-hot from the fire.

“No,” Chanyeol said, and the ghost said it along with him, perfect unison. “Stop,” Chanyeol said, as the ghost struggled against his captors. The entire room was shivering, glass rattling in the windowpanes and books shuddering along the shelves. One book suddenly went flying, shooting off of the shelf and right through the scene to slam into the wall just a meter to the left of Chanyeol’s head.

The poker came closer, threatening. The ghost’s eyes were flicking back and forth between the glowing tip and whatever was holding it, shrinking away as best he could while trapped. He set his jaw and looked up. “Never,” he said, spitting the word in his torturer’s face.

The poker came down, pressing into the side of the ghost’s ribcage.

The ghost screamed and struggled, but he couldn’t get away. Books started flying, one at a time at first, then faster and faster, rebounding off the walls. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and Chanyeol gagged, pulling back to try and get away from the onslaught. His hand reached for the doorknob, uncaring that it was slippery with blood.

“Let me out,” he gasped, rattling the door. He was on the hinge side; it wasn’t likely he’d be able to kick it in, especially not with as woozy as he felt. “Fuck, _please,_ let me out of here!”

“Sorry,” Chanyeol heard, and in shock he looked up. The tower ghost was looking right at him, face twisted in pain and covered in blood and tears, his skin still searing as his blackened shirt fizzled away. “I’m sorry,” he said again, gasping. “Go. Run.”

The door came open under Chanyeol’s hand.

Chanyeol stumbled into the hall. The blood on the walls was frozen over, reddish ice crackling against faded wallpaper.

He didn’t stop to think about it. He ran.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/unnie_bee), [askfm](https://ask.fm/unnie_bee), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/unnie_bee)!


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

_Saturday, September 29, 2019_

 

Chanyeol awoke in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar hotel room, much later than he usually would.

At first, he was disoriented, uncertain of where he was or why. Then, in a rush, it came back to him, up to and including his nightmares.

He’d run. Completely booked it right out of the house, got in his car and literally _left_. It had been more instinct than anything else - he couldn’t fight, so flight had kicked in. He’d driven away, almost blindly, not stopping until he found a small-town coffee shop. A sugary, chocolatey mocha and being surrounded by people had helped calm his panic a little, but the crackle of the fireplace brought back too many sense memories and he’d had to leave.

The hotel he’d ended up at was a relatively nice one, which was good because Chanyeol had nothing but his wallet, his phone, and whatever had been in his car. He’d fallen into bed early, but had been locked in his own mind, reliving what he had seen, for hours, and not actually fallen asleep until well after midnight.

He hadn’t realized how used to the feeling of impending dread he’d become until it wasn’t there anymore, hadn’t realized how the expectation that he could be awoken at any time by someone reliving their death had affected his sleep. The sheer calm of the morning felt so alien.

He should get up, but he didn’t have anywhere to be or anything to do, and the bed felt safe in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks. Chanyeol pulled the covers over his head, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

By the time Chanyeol _actually_ got out of bed, it was nearly noon. Everything hurt, his head most of all, and Chanyeol blearily stumbled into the suite’s bathroom to take a shower. As his shirt dropped to the ground, Chanyeol got a good look at himself in the oversized mirror, seeing himself in bright, cheery lighting for the first time in a while.

His complexion was too pale, sallow, and mottled with bruises and burns all over his torso. The cut on his cheek was red and angry, his left ear was bright pink from scalding, and the circles under his eyes were dark purple. He looked _terrible,_ and he hadn’t even looked at his legs yet.

“That house was trying to kill me,” Chanyeol said aloud. Seeing it like this made it real in a way he hadn’t been able to face when he was actually _inside_ the house. The danger had felt far-off, unreal. Now, in the stark light of day, Chanyeol couldn’t help but to wonder if that was because he hadn’t _wanted_ to believe it, or if it was because the house was actively _suppressing_ his fear to keep him from running away.

Could that be possible? The house was capable of making him feel emotions not his own, he was sure of that. Was it also capable of stopping him from feeling his own emotions? Dampening them? It would make sense - after all, if he’d been paying attention, he would have run away a long time before it got this bad.

“Well,” he said aloud to his reflection. “I’m out of there now.” He needed to heal, and the first step to that, he decided, was a long, hot shower, and then a big cup of coffee and a real meal.

He should feel relieved, but he was still a jittery mess, looking over his shoulder as if the ghosts had followed him to the hotel.

That would, fade, though, right? He’d be fine as soon as he got some rest.

 

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

The next few days were relaxing to his body, much-needed healing, but Chanyeol’s brain still wouldn’t shut up. He ate, he slept, he talked to Amber, he caught up on his shows, he explored the town where he was staying, but all through it, he couldn’t stop jumping at shadows, looking over his shoulder, holding his breath to listen for phantom sounds. Couldn’t stop thinking about the house, about the ghosts.

It occurred to him, as he was eating breakfast on Sunday, that he’d missed his opportunity to save Kyungsoo. He knew the ghost’s name, now, and he knew how to make him physical if he needed to do so. There was no reason Chanyeol couldn’t have put his soul to rest.

But he hadn’t. He’d run.

The thought unsettled him quite a bit. In a few more days, Sehun’s scene would repeat, if Chanyeol’s predictions about him were correct. Like with Kyungsoo, Chanyeol had the ability to stop Sehun from reliving his death, the ability to set his tortured soul free.

But that would mean going back into a house that was _literally trying to kill him._

Chanyeol wished he could work this out verbally with someone, but Amber was essentially the only friend he had left, and he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t even allow him to entertain the notion. Either the house was driving him insane, in which case she’d insist he needed to get out, or the house really _was_ trying to kill him, in which case he _really_ needed to get out. So he didn’t tell her why he’d left - just said that he needed to get away for a few days, with a quip about taking advantage of his newfound ability to spend frivolously. Amber seemed too relieved to question it.

September turned to October, and Chanyeol’s nerves were finally starting to calm, but he still couldn’t stop thinking about the manor all day, every day. More than once, Chanyeol caught himself going back over the obituaries he had saved on his phone. Kim Jongin, Huang Zitao, Lu Han, Kim Jongdae, Zhang Yixing. All the same gender, the same age, as he was. If the house was a serial killer, Chanyeol was definitely within the victim profile.

Yixing’s final words kept repeating in his mind, too. _If you’re going to save us, you have to save all of us._ Did his leaving the house mean that Jongin, Zitao and Yixing would be pulled back into their own versions of hell, forced to relive their own deaths over and over for eternity? And if what Zitao had said was true, they were _aware_ of it, retaining enough consciousness to be able to see the house changing around them.

Or, would they only be pulled back into torment if Chanyeol himself went back to the house and was killed? By running away, was he protecting them, or dooming them? There was no way for him to know, but the thought was keeping him up at night.

And then… there was the tower ghost.

By this point, Chanyeol was figuring that the tower ghost was the key to the mystery, the source of the curse. He was the only ghost who was forced to relive scenes other than his own death, the only ghost who was aware enough to be able to communicate with Chanyeol outright. Clearly, he had been abused in his life, possibly by his father. Was the haunting of the manor a result of his anguish, or had something else happened, something that trapped him - and every other young man like him - forever?

Chanyeol had never met another soul so clearly in pain, and he ached to find a way to ease it. Moreover, there was a part of him that kept expecting the tower ghost to pop into existence at his side at any moment, and was oddly disappointed when he didn’t. Chanyeol hadn’t realized how accustomed to the ghost he had already grown.

Chanyeol had to know more about him, he _had_ to. So, on a chilly, rainy Thursday morning, exactly one month after he’d moved into the manor in the first place, Chanyeol found himself driving back to the town that his property was technically a part of and getting permission to view the public and donated records in the city hall’s library.

All of the spirits he’d saved thus far were relatively recent. Jongin from 1978, Zitao from 1965, Yixing from 1934. According to his chart, the mysterious Kim Jongdae would have been between Yixing and Zitao, in 1949. The frozen ghost was in there somewhere, too, judging by his clothes and the cadence of his words.

But all of the other ghosts he’d seen were older than that. Do Kyungsoo and Oh Sehun had both died in 1890, and Lu Han in 1879. The jumper and the tiger ghost both seemed to be older, too, if Chanyeol’s estimate of their clothes was correct, but Chanyeol didn’t have their names, so he started with the victim he knew the most about - Sehun.

Armed with both a year and a name, Chanyeol was able to find something. The library’s catalog made mention of several boxes of documents that had been donated from Dragon Manor around the turn of the century, when an owner had done a massive cleanout. One of the boxes was filled with documents that had belonged to Lord Oh, Sehun’s father.

Chanyeol went to the desk and politely requested that the box be pulled from storage. The box he was given was heavy and musty, laden with documents several times older than he was. He dug right into it.

Most of what was in there was not very useful to him - business records and correspondence, mostly. Near the bottom of the box, though, Chanyeol found something - an old photograph of Lord Oh with his wife and son, sitting in front of the fireplace in the great room of the manor. Chanyeol recognized the fireplace, he recognized the tiger-skin rug at their feet, he recognized Sehun - and, to his surprise, he recognized the subject in the portrait over the mantle. It was the tower ghost, stately and poised, dressed in a Victorian dandy’s frippery with his hair tied back at his nape and a top hat perched on his head.

That must have been the painting Sehun had mentioned, the one whose eyes followed him whenever he was in the room, the one he had burned out of fear. It was too bad, honestly - the portrait looked awfully handsome. Chanyeol wished he could have seen it.

He flipped the photograph over briefly, not expecting that there would be anything on the back, but faded writing in black ink caught his eye. It took a moment to decipher it.

_Lord and Lady Oh and their son Sehun, with a portrait of Lord Kris Wu, the original owner of Dragon Manor._

Chanyeol flipped the photo back over and stared at it. Specifically, at the portrait on the wall.

Lord Wu. Finally, he had a name.

 

 

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With the knowledge that the ghost’s name was Kris Wu and he had been the original owner of the house, Chanyeol was finally able to track down the information he had been looking for all along. It took him a few days, but eventually he found a history book of the area that contained a passage about Dragon Manor.

> _Dragon Manor is unique to this part of the country due in large part to its history. Built in 1830, the manor was intended to be a lavish wedding gift from Chinese trading empire magnate Lord Kris Wu to his new bride, Joseon native Jessica Jung. Wu and Jung had met in England while studying abroad, and by all accounts their romance was whirlwind._
> 
> _Their story has a tragic ending, however, as Kris Wu became mentally ill only a few short years later. By 1836, Lord Wu had been declared completely mentally incapacitated and was confined to only a few rooms of the expansive mansion for the safety of himself and others._
> 
> _In 1837, Lord Wu committed suicide. His widow inherited his business empire and was responsible for it until her own death only a few years later. Their story has been the subject of much local legend for many years, as many believe the manor to be haunted by the spirits of the insane lord and his grief-stricken young wife._

Rubbing his hand over his mouth, Chanyeol read over the passage again. There was no mention of a father figure whatsoever, but Chanyeol found it quite odd that Lady Wu had gained control of the lord’s business holdings upon his passing. That meant he must have had no family to speak of - no children, of course, but also no siblings, no parents. Any blood relative should have gained control of an inherited business like that before a spouse would, _particularly_ when she was Korean and the business was Chinese.

The whole “declared mentally incapacitated” thing struck a foul note with Chanyeol as well. Even if insanity was cured by death - which he seriously doubted would be the case - Chanyeol had _witnessed_ Kris Wu’s last moments and he hadn’t seemed at all insane. His suicide had clearly been a deliberate decision that had cost him a lot to make, and he’d seemed perfectly lucid, almost too lucid, when he made it. Hopeless, maybe, but not _insane_.

Coupled with the scene that Chanyeol had witnessed in the study, of the lord being tortured at the hands of someone who called himself “Father,” and Chanyeol was starting to see a disturbing picture. Needing to know more, Chanyeol looked up the citations that the history book had used, and found a number of old essays and collections pertaining to local history.

It took a while to dig up what he was looking for. In the public records, Chanyeol found information on Kris and his family, and it turned out that he had indeed been without a blood heir at the time of his death. He was an only child, his mother dying in childbirth as was too common at the time, leaving his father to raise him. Born in China, he was sent to study in Britain in 1822, and when his father passed away unexpectedly in 1829, he inherited a thriving trading partnership with British merchants, importing opium into China and exporting tea in exchange.

Kris had been only nineteen at the time, which explained a lot. If Chanyeol had been nineteen, newly in love, and suddenly wildly rich, he probably would have spent a ridiculous amount of money building a massive mansion for his lover, too.

Though they were married for eight years before Kris died, Kris and Jessica had not had any children. Chanyeol found this to be a little bit odd, especially given the time period and the fact that Kris had a massive fortune and would have felt some not-inconsiderable pressure to produce heirs. Nothing in the records Chanyeol found made any mention of why.

In any case, it was clear to Chanyeol now that Lord Wu was the key. His death had triggered the haunting of Dragon Manor, and Chanyeol now had everything he needed to stop him from killing himself and, hopefully, break the curse and set all of the spirits free.

He could save them. He might be the _only one _who could save them.__

The question was, was Chanyeol brave enough to go back?

 

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

As it turned out, Chanyeol was indeed brave enough, though it took him a few more days to screw up his courage and make the commitment. Chanyeol pulled up the long, winding driveway to the manor just after sunset on Thursday, October 10, almost two weeks after he had run away.

Nothing in the house had changed. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Chanyeol wasn’t sure why that was surprising to him - after all, if he wasn’t in the house, the ghosts might not be manifesting at all.

He did go to check, and found that the second-floor study had mysteriously been put back together. There were no books strewn across the floor, no ashes in the fireplace, no smell of burnt flesh. All was quiet.

Chanyeol didn’t find it to be very comforting, but he’d made his decision. All of these spirits needed his help, and Kris’s spirit most of all.

He could do this.

 

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol went to bed early that night, and set his alarm for stupidly-early-o’clock. By four-thirty AM, he was making his way up the tower stairs to the fourth-floor bedroom, his little craft knife in hand. If Kris needed help, he would get it. If Kris needed _blood,_ he would get it. Chanyeol was going to do everything in his power to stop this insanity _tonight._

He waited, jumpy with nerves. The silence in the house was almost too deafening; Chanyeol was starting to wonder if him leaving for two weeks had caused the entire cycle to reset, if he’d need to spend another several days bleeding and expending energy within the house before the spirits would start manifesting again.

Just after five-thirty, Chanyeol found out that was not, in fact, the case. Kris shimmered into existence on the foot of the bed, his head in his hands. Crying.

Swallowing down his jumping heart, Chanyeol went over and sat next to the ghost. The clammy chill that went up his arm was familiar enough by now that he didn’t shudder away from it.

“Kris,” he said. “Kris Wu.”

No response. Chanyeol called his name again, tacking “Lord” onto it this time, and even put his hand inside the spectre’s shoulder. Still nothing. Chanyeol watched in confusion as Kris stood and went to the mantle, taking down the portrait that was no longer there.

Oh. “The portrait is of Jessica, isn’t it?” Chanyeol thought out loud. “That’s why she’s dressed in Western clothes. And the man that’s with her… he must be…” He furrowed his brow. “He probably isn’t your father… Is he _her_ father? Is _that_ who did this to you?”

Kris closed the wardrobe and snapped the handle. Now that he was paying attention, Chanyeol noticed that his hands were shaking, and the violence of the movement struck him. Kris seemed clearer to him than the first time he’d seen this, more in-focus, though still translucent, and for a moment Chanyeol was transfixed by the emotions he saw chasing each other across Kris’s face, the fear and the heartbreak and the pure, helpless _anger._

Then, Kris went to the other side of the bed and sat down, right next to the nightstand where his razor was hidden.

“Shit.” Chanyeol came over and knelt down in front of him, looking up into his eyes. “Kris Wu. Lord Kris Wu, don’t do this. Please.” He waved, he snapped his fingers, but Kris continued looking right through him. “Okay. Okay.” Chanyeol pulled out his craft knife.

His scrapes, bruises and cuts had almost completely healed over the past two weeks, but his pinky finger where he’d cut himself to save Yixing was still tender. He did his third finger instead, his ring finger, and then put his hand on Kris’s knee.

His fingers went right through. Frowning, Chanyeol cut himself again, a shallow but longer cut on the top of his forearm, wincing as blood welled up and dripped onto the floor. He felt the room shudder, but still, Kris remained translucent and untouchable.

“Kris. _Kris._ ” Chanyeol waved his hands in front of Kris’s face as the ghost put his arm right through Chanyeol’s shoulder to open the drawer to the nightstand. “Kris Wu! _Kris!_ ” He and the ghost were nearly sharing the same space, and Chanyeol was dripping blood everywhere. It wasn’t working - why wasn’t it working?!

Kris drew the ghostly razor back through Chanyeol’s shoulder, no sensation except for the chill.

Panic welled in Chanyeol’s chest. “No, Kris, please.” There were tears in his eyes; he couldn’t stop them and he barely bothered to try. “Kris, Kris Wu, for God’s sake, please don’t do this. You have to put the blade down, Kris, _please!_ ”

The clock struck six. By now, Chanyeol knew that if it was a normal grandfather clock, he wouldn’t be able to hear it up this far, but of course, like everything else, it was a ghost.

“Kris, please,” he whispered, his vision blurring with tears.

Kris’s eyes fluttered shut. “Forgive me for this,” he murmured. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“All you have to do,” Chanyeol begged, “is put the razor down. Just don’t do it. Wait, please, just a few more minutes.” Even as he said it, he realized what was off with that. Every other ghost had only to wait until the clock struck to be saved, but for Kris, the clock struck _before_ he died. The last thing he heard.

A shaky, audible exhale, and Kris brought the razor up to his throat.

“Kris, _no!_ ”

“Chanyeol.”

Shocked, Chanyeol’s eyes widened. Kris was looking right at him, his black eyes as tear-filled as Chanyeol’s own.

“Don’t look,” he whispered. “Close your eyes, don’t look.”

Sobbing, Chanyeol did as he was told, and a moment later he felt the impact as Kris’s lifeless body hit the bed sheets.

 

 

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One would think that seeing the same death three times would make it less horrible - especially when Chanyeol knew it hadn’t changed anything, and that Kris’s ghost would still be wandering around the house just like it always had - but his sheer helplessness in the face of that horror hit Chanyeol hard. He’d stayed right there on the floor, sobbing next to Kris’s body, until the pools of blood dripping down the sides of the bed had faded away.

Now, as he sat out on the back patio stairs with his coffee, Chanyeol focused on calming down and looking forward. It was a setback, to be sure, but he’d made a promise and he wasn’t about to back down that easily.

So. What did he know, and what did he need to find out?

He knew Kris was different. His death was the first, and as far as Chanyeol could tell, it was the only genuine suicide; all the rest had been murders that were _staged_ as either accidents or suicides.

Yixing had said, “If you’re going to save us, you have to save _all_ of us,” so maybe that meant that Kris’s scene couldn’t be broken until all of the other ghosts were gone?

It was the best guess Chanyeol had, anyway, which meant he needed to save all the rest of the ghosts before the house got him, too. His home had become a battleground, but Chanyeol wasn’t going down without a fight. _Someone_ had to stop this horror.

Chanyeol pulled out his little chart of ghosts and updated it. It was Friday. Tonight, or, well, early tomorrow morning, the jumper would jump. Chanyeol didn’t know his name, but maybe blood would be enough. If he could make the jumper corporeal, maybe he could just tackle the guy to the ground and hold him down until the clock chimed.

Even if that didn’t work, Chanyeol was reasonably certain he could save Kyungsoo tomorrow night. If _that_ didn’t work, then he would really have to re-examine things. He’d likely have another shot at Sehun on Wednesday, and he had Lu Han’s name, if he could ever figure out what his pattern of recurrence was. Kim Jongdae would have to appear eventually, too. That left only the frozen ghost and the tiger ghost.

And he’d have to stay alive in the meantime, of course.

“I can do this,” Chanyeol said out loud to himself. “It’ll be fine.”

 

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Blood alone was _not_ enough, apparently.

Chanyeol tried, he really did, but all it got him was new open wounds on his arms and a lot of frustration. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get the jumper’s attention, not even for a second.

“What are you seeing?” Chanyeol asked, as the jumper paced the same circles as he had every Saturday morning for decades. “Who are you talking to?”

“Me.”

Startled, Chanyeol looked up. Kris was standing next to him on the terrace, shimmering in the moonlight. “You?” he asked. “But you’re not - ”

“There? No. But I was.”

“Stop this,” the jumper said. “Leave me be!”

Kris’s face compressed. “I didn’t understand what had happened,” he murmured. “I didn’t know what he saw, when he looked at me.” He reached out a hand towards the jumper, and his voice took on a slightly different tone, confused and desperate. “Help me, please help me!”

“No, no.” The jumper covered his ears with his hands and turned away. “I shan’t listen, I shan’t!”

His hand slowly dropping, Kris shook his head. “I understand his reaction now,” he whispered, the confused affectation dropping from his tone. “But I didn’t, then. I grew angry.”

The wind picked up. Gasping, Chanyeol took an instinctive step back. Not only was his own hair and clothes ruffled by the wind, but so were the hair and clothes of _both_ of the ghosts.

“Come no closer, fiend!” the jumper yelled, terrified. “Stop, I say!”

“I only wanted him to _see_ me.” Kris shook his head sadly. “I didn’t understand.”

Just as before, the jumper stumbled back too far. Chanyeol closed his eyes, wincing as the familiar scream tore through the air, followed a second later by the sound of shattering glass.

Silence. The wind died down, leaving behind only the occasional chirp of a cricket.

Chanyeol expected that when he opened his eyes, Kris would be gone, but to his surprise the ghost was still there, watching him. Chanyeol swallowed, taking a couple of deep breaths to get his heart rate back under control.

“He was the first, wasn’t he?” Chanyeol guessed. “After you, I mean. The first one the house got.”

Kris inclined his head. “And my first time as well.”

What? Chanyeol’s brain immediately went to _but how could you have had sex with him if you were a ghost,_ but then his good sense caught up and he realized what Kris was trying to say. “You hadn’t manifested before he came into the house.” Of course! “You… you only exist when there’s a young man your age living here, don’t you?”

Folding his hands behind his back, Kris paced a little, tracing out the circular path the jumper had taken. His footsteps made no sound whatsoever. “I exist,” he said, “but I am not… It isn’t the same, no.”

Shit, Chanyeol couldn’t even _imagine_ how much that sucked. “So he was the first one who could see you,” he guessed. “The first person you could talk to, since you became… whatever you are now. You tried to reach out.”

Full lips twitched unhappily. “When a monster steps forward, a wise man backs away.”

Chanyeol’s heart jolted painfully. “You aren’t a monster,” he said, moving until he was right in Kris’s path. Kris stopped pacing, close enough that Chanyeol could feel the chill coming off him. “And I’m not backing away.”

A ghostly hand reached up, tentative and slow, as if giving Chanyeol time to recoil. Chanyeol held still, his breath catching in his throat as Kris’s translucent fingers brushed down his cheek and jaw, no more substantial than an icy wind. He reached up and traced out the shell of Chanyeol’s ear, and Chanyeol shivered.

“You will die,” Kris whispered, his eyebrows compressing.

“No,” Chanyeol said firmly. “I’m gonna save you.”

 

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Saturday was long, but mostly uneventful. Still, as the hour grew later, Chanyeol came to realize that the manor was not happy with him. The usual creaking, groaning noises became doors slamming, taps turning on and off, window glass rattling. Chanyeol made a point of removing all of the knives from the kitchen and locking them in the front hall closet, and damn if he didn’t nearly trip while carrying them anyway.

 _You’re going to have to try harder than that,_ Chanyeol thought, but he didn’t say it out loud for fear of the house taking it as a dare. His craft knife felt heavy in his pocket - he knew how to handle it safely, but if the house decided to turn it against him it could still do quite a lot of damage. He’d taken to carrying it on him at all times, just in case.

Five-twenty passed, and the sun was hanging very, very low on the horizon, when the ghost he was waiting for finally appeared, shimmering into life in front of a counter that no longer existed. Knowing he didn’t have much time, Chanyeol immediately called out his name. “Do Kyungsoo!”

Kyungsoo stopped and looked up, curiosity on his features. His expression was more like Yixing’s than like Jongin’s or Zitao’s - awake, aware, just going about his business.

The house hadn’t bothered to put him in some kind of fugue state, it had just… Killed him.

“Do Kyungsoo, can you see me?” Chanyeol got in front of Kyungsoo’s face and waved his hands. Kyungsoo frowned, looking around, so Chanyeol raised his voice. “Do Kyungsoo!”

Startled, Kyungsoo jumped back, wide eyes focusing on Chanyeol’s face. “What - ”

“Hi. Hello. Please do me a favor and put the knife down,” Chanyeol said urgently, trying to keep his expression pleasant and not-scary while still getting across how vitally important this was.

It apparently didn’t work, because Kyungsoo actually brandished the knife in Chanyeol’s direction instead. “Come no closer,” he warned.

Chanyeol glanced up at the clock. He knew this scene would happen very fast - there wasn’t much time to argue. So he pulled out his craft knife, uncapped it, and sliced shallowly into the side of his hand.

Kyungsoo’s wide eyes widened further. “ _What -_ ”

He took a step back, and Chanyeol actually saw his foot catch on the floor. Leaping forward, Chanyeol reached out with his bloodied hand.

The sharp movement made blood splatter out in an arc, and the moment it touched the ghost, he became solid. Chanyeol knocked the knife out of his hand, sending it flying to the other side of the room. Kyungsoo hit the ground, exactly as he always did, but this time, the knife wasn’t there.

Relief made Chanyeol’s knees so weak, he basically collapsed at Kyungsoo’s side. “Sorry,” he said giddily. “Wasn’t fast enough to catch you.”

Kyungsoo scrambled up, flipping over so he could scoot away from Chanyeol. “Who are you?!” he asked sharply.

Chanyeol opened his mouth to explain, but a crash cut him off. Broken glass rained down on both of their heads. “Shit!” he exclaimed, protecting his face with his bloodied hand as he glanced up just in time to see another water glass flying over their heads to crash into the cabinets just above.

“What is happening?!” Kyungsoo yelled. A third glass crashed, this one very close to Chanyeol’s head, and they both yelped and scrambled. Chanyeol grabbed his wrist and pulled him along behind the cabinets, his mind racing to predict and avoid anything that could become a weapon.

Wait. Swerving to the right, Chanyeol got to his feet and bolted for the new addition, the breakfast room that stuck off at an angle from the kitchen. He pulled the door shut behind him and leaned against it.

Kyungsoo wheeled on him. “ _Where am I?!_ ” he snapped fearfully.

“Dragon Manor,” Chanyeol told him, “and I really hope this room is safe.” He looked at his watch. “Thirty more seconds.”

Another glass shattered against the door, with enough force that Chanyeol felt it jolt. He grit his teeth and braced his knees. There was another, and then a very loud thunk.

Then, finally, silence. Chanyeol waited until he heard the grandfather clock - five forty-five - before he relaxed.

Stance spread and hands on his hips, Kyungsoo glared expectantly at Chanyeol, with a look that said _I am not leaving here until you explain this nonsense._ Chanyeol couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. “I see why Sehun likes you,” he muttered.

Kyungsoo’s posture shifted from guarded to curious. “You know my lord?” he asked. “Did he send you?”

The completely innocent question was sobering. Chanyeol’s laughter died.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I found - here, come with me, I’ll show you.”

Opening the door revealed more broken glass and a very heavy stone dolsot pot that had made a nasty dent in the solid wood door. He stepped carefully over the mess, then led Kyungsoo down the hall, avoiding the kitchen and cutting through the dining room instead. Chanyeol could tell from Kyungsoo’s expression that the house must look very different.

“This _is_ the Manor,” Kyungsoo said as they passed through the foyer and into the great room. “Yet it is not. It is changed. How can this be?” He turned in place as they walked, taking in the dilapidated surroundings. “I just came through here, only a few minutes ago. It did not look like this.”

Chanyeol wondered if this part was ever going to get any easier. “Kyungsoo,” he said, “you last walked through here one hundred and thirty years ago.” Wide eyes turned to him, and Chanyeol drew in a deep breath. Nope, not any easier than it was the first three times. “You died, Kyungsoo. The manor made you trip, and you fell on your knife.”

Kyungsoo stared at him.

“No,” he said slowly, as if Chanyeol was a little bit dense. “You knocked the knife from my hand.”

Chanyeol shook his head. “I didn’t. Not the first time it happened,” he murmured. “Didn’t you know that the manor was haunted? Didn’t you hear things, _see_ things?”

That made Kyungsoo pause, and Chanyeol nodded.

“I thought so. We all did. What did you see?”

“The young man who died ten years ago,” Kyungsoo said, watching Chanyeol’s face for a reaction. Chanyeol nodded at him encouragingly. “The Lu son. We all know the story but… I saw him, more than once. I heard him scream.”

“Running through the east gallery, right?” Chanyeol said, and Kyungsoo nodded, looking surprised. “I’ve seen him too. Did you hear the other screams too, late at night, with the crashing noise?”

Kyungsoo nodded again. “Lots of screaming. Female screams, male screams.” Chanyeol opened his mouth to ask what he meant, since he himself had never heard a female voice screaming within the house, but Kyungsoo was still talking. “I saw the first owner, the man in that portrait that used to be there.” He pointed at the empty wall above the huge fireplace in the great room.

“Kris Wu,” Chanyeol said, and Kyungsoo nodded. “I have seen him as well, many times.” He quickly recalled his chart. “I do believe every other ghost I have seen died after your time.”

Leading Kyungsoo into his sitting room, Chanyeol went to dig out a specific letter from Sehun’s folio, spread out still on his coffee table. He found the one he wanted, but when he turned, he saw that Kyungsoo was staring at the portrait that was leaning against the wall in the corner.

“That is…” He frowned. “Is that not Lady Wu and her father, Lord Jung?”

Chanyeol’s insides did a funny little skip. “Is it? I thought it might be, but I wasn’t sure.”

“It’s rare to see a Joseon woman in a British dress,” Kyungsoo said dryly. “She was… Eccentric. Our cook served the Jung family when she was a child, you see. She would tell us stories.”

Fascinated, Chanyeol cocked his head. “What did your cook say?”

“She was too young to remember either Lord Wu,” Kyungsoo said, coming over to sit next to Chanyeol. “The elder died before she was born, and the younger committed suicide when she was very small. But she remembered Lady Wu.” He shook his head. “She said the lady was very somber, and hardly anyone ever saw her. Consumed with grief. Lord Jung ran the household, even before Lady Wu died.” He looked around. “This place looks… Alien. Like something from a fairytale.” He ran his hand over the plush, ivory microfiber of the couch, and then looked at Chanyeol. “I… I’m really dead, aren’t I?

Chanyeol’s face compressed. “I’m sorry.”

Dropping his eyes to the bright, cheery geometric rug, Kyungsoo drew in a long breath, and blew it out slowly. “I don’t even remember it,” he murmured. “I was alive in my home, in my time, doing my duties. Then you called my name, and appeared as if from nowhere, and everything changed in an instant.” He reached forward and brushed fingers over one of the letters on the table. “This is my lord’s penmanship.”

“Yeah.” Chanyeol picked up the letter he’d pulled out. “Sehun kept record of his thoughts in the form of letters addressed to you. I don’t know how much time you have left here, so… This one is the most important.” He handed the letter over. It was the one that began, _You are dead, and my heart has died along with you._

It felt like an intrusion to watch Kyungsoo’s face as he read, so Chanyeol stood and walked to the other side of the room, pretending to be very interested in the view out the back sliding doors. It was well into October now, and the orange and pink light of sunset made the changing trees glow like flames. The beauty of the manor sometimes felt like the bait in a trap, but it captivated Chanyeol all the same.

Kyungsoo was crying. Chanyeol could hear him.

He gave the man a few moments, until he couldn’t take it anymore, then he went back to the couch and sat down, instinctively rubbing a hand over Kyungsoo’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said, uselessly.

“He was in love with me,” Kyungsoo said, choked. “I never knew. I wish I had.”

“Did you… Do you…” Chanyeol wasn’t sure if saying it would upset Kyungsoo more.

Kyungsoo shook his head. “I didn’t allow myself to,” he whispered. “I was… Lord Oh, the elder Lord Oh I mean, he caught me with one of the stable-boys once.” He glanced up warily, but Chanyeol just nodded encouragingly. “And he told me he would kill me if I came near his son.”

Chanyeol’s eyes widened. “ _Oh._ ”

“The young Lord was so very - oh, I wish he had told me,” Kyungsoo said wistfully. “I could have loved him. I _would_ have.” He looked up, and his eyes were so filmy with tears that Chanyeol had to hug him. Kyungsoo accepted the hug after only a moment of stiffened surprise. “What… what happened to him? S-Sehun?”

He really didn’t want to have to say this, but Kyungsoo deserved to know. “He died less than a month after you did,” Chanyeol admitted. “An accident in the west wing library. His very last act was to hide these letters, and they stayed hidden until I found them only a few weeks ago.”

Kyungsoo’s thick brows were crumpling. “An _accident?_ ” he asked.

“It appeared to be, yes. I’ll spare you the details, but it was very quick. I doubt he felt any pain.” Chanyeol met his eyes. “He became a ghost, just as you did. In a few days, I will have the opportunity to try and save him, to make him real, like you are now.”

Large, teary brown eyes slid to the side, looking at something Chanyeol couldn’t see. “I… Oh.” Kyungsoo swallowed. “I won’t be here, then, will I?”

That look, Chanyeol knew that look. He checked his watch - it hadn’t even been twenty minutes yet! “No, fuck, it can’t be time for you to go, not yet!”

“It is.” Kyungsoo looked back at him. “I’m remembering - Oh, God.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, looking a bit desperate. “Do you have paper, a pen? Please, hurry, I don’t have much time.”

It took a second, but then Chanyeol realized what he meant, and he bolted for his bedroom. There was a notebook by his bed where he’d been sketching out ideas for the restoration; he ripped out a page and brought it and a pen to Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo’s message was short, somewhat messily written. Chanyeol resisted the urge to snoop at it - it wasn’t his business. He could see Kyungsoo gritting his teeth, then twitching his legs, as if it physically pained him to stay where he was and not walk into the light.

Finally, with a gasp, he signed his name. “This is for my lord,” he said. “I have to go. Thank you, _thank_ you.”

Chanyeol didn’t get a chance to promise that he would give the note to Sehun, he didn’t get a chance to say _you’re welcome_ or even _goodbye._ Kyungsoo stood, and he was gone, leaving Chanyeol sitting alone, staring at the place where he had been as the daylight faded.

In the silence, there was a slight whoosh of air, and a familiar chill shivered up Chanyeol’s arm. Chanyeol didn’t even look up.

“It’s the sunset, isn’t it?” he guessed. “Or sun _rise_ , in Yixing’s case. That’s when the spirits have to leave.” He glanced to the side and found Kris sitting next to him on the sofa, watching him. “That’s why the timing varies. Sunset keeps getting earlier as we get deeper into autumn, and the ghosts all died at different times of the day.”

“I had no idea that they were in love,” Kris murmured. “I have walked these halls for two hundred years, and yet you keep teaching me new things about them.”

“They had to hide it.” Chanyeol turned his body and leaned in towards the ghost, shuddering from the cold and not caring. Kyungsoo’s tears had hit him _hard_ , and he was more grateful for Kris’s presence than he really wanted to think about. “They had to pretend to be someone else for the sake of appearances. Kyungsoo pretended so hard, he actually believed his own lie. Right up until his death.”

The knit blanket that was over the arm of the couch lifted and slid over Chanyeol’s shoulders, startling him. It had moved by itself.

“We all lie for the sake of appearances,” Kris murmured, as Chanyeol gratefully wrapped himself in the blanket. “Even you.”

Chanyeol snorted. “Don’t I know it.” The way he’d said it, though, made Chanyeol curious. “All of the accounts I’ve read, the stories I’ve heard, said that you and Jessica were madly in love. Was that a lie for appearances?”

Kris’s eyes drifted over to the portrait sitting in the corner. “Yes, and no,” he whispered. “I would have done anything for her. She was my best friend.”

Not _my angel_ , not _my princess_ , not _the most important thing in my life_. Not even _my wife_. Best friend. Something about that felt significant, to Chanyeol. “What part was the lie?” he asked.

Black eyes returned to meet his. “The woman who comes to stay with you sometimes,” Kris said abruptly. “Amber. Do you love her?”

“What? No! Well, yes, but. Not in the way you mean.” He smiled a little, rueful. “She’s _my_ best friend.”

Kris returned his smile. “She is beautiful,” he pointed out. “Unconventionally so, but I’m afraid I lost track of what the _conventional_ standards were right around the time ladies began wearing trousers.” Chanyeol chuckled at that. “And she cares for you a great deal. It has not crossed your mind?”

“It rarely does,” Chanyeol said wryly. “I’m… I’m not very _good_ at… Relationships. With _anyone_.”

Cocking his head, Kris stared at him steadily. “I find that difficult to believe. You are passionate in a way that precious few can claim to be, and you _care_ more than anyone else I have ever known.”

Wow. Blushing, Chanyeol ducked his head. “Thanks,” he muttered. “It’s not that I don’t care, it’s…” He sighed. “I’m selfish, I guess. Too absorbed in myself. I drive people away.”

Kris’s eyes narrowed. He studied Chanyeol’s face for a long time, until Chanyeol was all but squirming under the scrutiny. Finally, he looked back towards the table.

“Jessica and I were very, very close,” he said, “but if it had been our choice alone, we would not have gotten married. We did it to appease her father - and to protect each other.”

He stood. Chanyeol attempted to stand as well, suddenly filled with questions, but the blanket tightened around his limbs, heavy, holding him down.

Kris glanced back at him, smiled sadly, and disappeared.

 

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol was awoken that night by a literal _roar_.

Startling wide awake, he sat straight up and froze, listening. The usual creaking, groaning, rattling noises of the house were eerily silent, but there was a rhythmic floorboard creak that Chanyeol had not heard before, that sounding like nothing so much as a very heavy animal pacing over old flooring.

No fucking _way_.

Holding his breath, with his heartbeat flying so wildly he was certain he was going to go into cardiac arrest, Chanyeol very, very slowly got out of his bed, freezing in place as soon as his weight was transferred to the floor. There was no change in the rhythm of the pacing, so he very, very carefully made his way to the door of his bedroom.

For the first time, he regretted not choosing a bedroom that had more than one exit. His only way out was into the sitting room, which he was almost certain would take him _closer_ to the tiger, since it sounded like it was in the great room. But at least he had three exits from the sitting room - out onto the back patio, the hall that lead down to the west wing, and the great room itself.

Chanyeol didn’t really like the notion of getting trapped inside the winding, convoluted halls of the house with a tiger, his dream from weeks ago sticking in his mind, so he opted for the back patio. The relatively new glass sliding door was much quieter than the older, creaky wooden interior doors anyway.

There was a garden shed around the corner of the house, and Chanyeol went to it and picked up a woodcutting axe. It was a little rusted, but better than nothing. If the tiger was real enough to hurt him, then it was real enough for Chanyeol to defend himself.

He creeped back around, staying well back from the patio, and carefully peered into the large windows of the great room. Sure enough, the fireplace was lit, and a huge, orange-and-black tiger was pacing around the room, right over the spot where the rug used to be.

Chanyeol had burnt the rug up, but apparently that didn’t matter. Just like Sehun burning Kris’s portrait hadn’t stopped Kris’s ghost from appearing, burning the rug hadn’t stopped the tiger. It was a part of the house, now.

And if Chanyeol’s thoughts about what had dragged the frozen ghost to his doom were correct, it could _leave_ the house, too. So he stepped back, keeping just one corner of the room in sight, enough to watch the flicker of firelight and to catch a glimpse of stripes every so often.

He waited, jittering with fearful adrenaline, for what felt like hours. Finally, near sunrise, the firelight went out, and Chanyeol risked taking a closer look. The tiger was gone.

He brought the axe into the house with him, making a note to sharpen it and keep it by his bed. The manor could turn literally anything into a weapon to use against him - the dishes, the walls, the floorboards even - but Chanyeol thought it would probably be a good idea to keep something on hand he could use to fight back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/unnie_bee), [askfm](https://ask.fm/unnie_bee), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/unnie_bee)!


	7. Chapter 7

 

_Wednesday, October 16th, 2019_

 

Sehun’s rescue went more smoothly than any so far. Chanyeol didn’t even have to cut himself - Sehun was so startled by the appearance of such an oddly-dressed spectre in front of him that he didn’t even attempt to climb the bookcase. Though the windows rattled and the books trembled threateningly, the scene was so short, so close to the grandfather clock’s chime, that it was over before the house could make another attempt to kill. Sehun popped into existence with his folio of letters still in his hand, confused as anything.

And that was when Chanyeol realized that it was not even nine in the morning, and if his guess was correct, Sehun would not fade until sundown, around six. That meant they had _nine full hours_.

Because it was going to be such a long day, when Chanyeol was explaining what had happened, he left out Kyungsoo. Sehun did ask - of course he asked - but Chanyeol only told Sehun that he had already released Kyungsoo’s ghost, and said nothing about their conversation or the letter Kyungsoo had left. If he told Sehun about it now, Sehun would be unable to think about anything else for the rest of the day, and, rather selfishly, Chanyeol wanted him to be undistracted. He found himself embarrassingly excited at the idea of company, even just for a few hours.

“So,” Chanyeol said, as they moved into the main body of the house. “You have an extra day on Earth, one hundred and thirty years in the future. How would you like to spend it?”

Wide-eyed, staring at the changes that had been made over the years, Sehun didn’t answer at first. Finally, he met Chanyeol’s eyes.

“I certainly don’t want to spend it here, in this damned house,” he said decisively. “Can we go down to the village? I’d like to see what the future is like.”

Chanyeol grinned at him. “Good thing you’re about my size,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get you dressed and I’ll take you out on the town.”

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Showing Sehun the future was _incredibly_ fun. Chanyeol didn’t realize how much he took for granted - everything from elastic waistbands to fully paved roads was new and exciting to Sehun. He actually _laughed_ when Chanyeol revved his car’s engine, and begged Chanyeol to teach him to drive it.

Chanyeol took him to a coffee shop for breakfast, and let him pick out at least twice as many pastries as he should be eating, though he did warn Sehun that he probably should be a little careful unless he wanted to spend his last day sick to his stomach. He didn’t actually know if ghosts could get sick, but Zitao had felt the pain from his sprained ankles, so he figured it was better to be safe.

They spent the morning talking over coffee, about technology in the future, about the manor, about themselves. Sehun mentioned Kyungsoo several times, but if Chanyeol hadn’t read the letters, he never would have known how deeply Sehun’s feelings went. Sehun was clearly used to hiding them.

After coffee, they took a walk through the town, and Sehun pointed out everything that was still there from his time, which was more than Chanyeol really had expected. A lot had changed, but quite a lot actually hadn’t, and Sehun’s perspective on it was fascinating.

They turned some heads as they walked, too, which Chanyeol attributed entirely to how stunning Sehun looked in skinny jeans, one of Chanyeol’s classier pinstriped button-down shirts, and a leather jacket to ward off the October chill. Sehun had exclaimed over how light and form-fitting the clothes were, how flattering, but it was clear now that he wasn’t really used to having the long, thin lines of his body on display like this.

“People are staring at me,” he muttered, as a pair of high-school-age girls giggled behind their hands. “Do I stand out so much?”

“Only because you are so handsome,” Chanyeol teased, and Sehun flushed and smiled shyly at him. “Well… it could also be your hair. Long hair went out of style decades ago.”

Sehun ran his hand through his waist-length, smooth black hair, an unconscious motion. “It isn’t because they think that we…?”

The hesitance in Sehun’s tone finished the sentence for him. “I doubt it,” Chanyeol said, jostling his shoulder companionably. “It’s hardly unusual for two young men to walk down the street together. But even if they did, it might not be a very big deal.” He smiled. “Society’s views on romance between men is changing. It’s a slow change, not everyone can accept it, but it isn’t something that absolutely must be hidden in every circumstance. Not anymore.”

Sehun drew in a deep breath, and blew out a sigh. “Then I was born a hundred and thirty years too early,” he muttered.

“Maybe.” Chanyeol held out his hand. “It’s your last day on Earth… Do you want to try out some romance?”

Biting his lip, Sehun considered it. Slowly, he took Chanyeol’s hand, wound their fingers together. 

It was a start. Chanyeol grinned at him, and they started walking again.

Keeping in mind that Sehun had never had the opportunity to act out romance with someone, Chanyeol made an extra effort to be sweet and gentlemanly. It wasn’t really too much of a stretch to treat Sehun the way he would a boyfriend, to touch him and hold doors for him and flirt. Sehun was flushed pink, but he seemed to be enjoying the attention, and Chanyeol found he really liked giving it. It had been a long time since he had felt he was able to be flirty and romantic with someone.

He found a really nice restaurant and treated Sehun to a full, gourmet late lunch, feeding him morsels with his own chopsticks and tangling their legs together. Sehun laughed, still blushing, but returned the gesture, offering Chanyeol a bit of steak and letting his fingers trail along the side of Chanyeol’s knee under the table.

They went to a park afterwards to walk, and Chanyeol took advantage of the relative solitude to pull Sehun close, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I might be getting a little carried away with this game,” he admitted, laughing.

“I don’t mind,” Sehun said. “It’s freedom I’ve never had before. Even if it’s only for one day, even if this is all the time I have left, it’s better than never knowing what this feels like.” He bit his lip. “I wish that I could have had this with... Before.”

Chanyeol slowed, then halted, partially hidden from the rest of the park by a cove of trees. “I wish you could stay,” he said. “It’s so fucking unfair, your entire life was taken from you. You should have had a future.”

Tentatively, Sehun took both of Chanyeol’s hands in his own, holding them lightly in the space between their bodies. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?” he said softly.

Chanyeol blinked at him. “What?”

“That house, it’s far too big for one person. It was too big for the dozen people who lived there with me, I can’t imagine how silent it is for you.” He squeezed Chanyeol’s hands, brought Chanyeol’s fingers up to his mouth and pressed a kiss lightly to his knuckles. Chanyeol’s breath caught. “I am the pampered son of a very rich man, and yet no one has ever been so attentive to me as you have been in the last few hours alone. You need someone, Chanyeol, someone to care for and who will care for you. You aren’t the kind of person who should be alone.”

Dropping his gaze, Chanyeol studied their hands. “I had someone,” he admitted. “Someone I thought was perfect for me, someone I wanted to be with forever.” He sighed. “The problem was, I wasn’t perfect for _him._ ” Oddly, this wasn’t as painful to talk about as it usually was. Chanyeol had been too preoccupied to really think much about Minho lately. “He left me, and I think he made the right decision. He’ll be happier with someone else.”

“But what about you?” Sehun asked.

Chanyeol shrugged. “I’m fine. I know how to be alone.” He flashed a rueful smile. “Besides, the manor keeps me pretty darn busy.”

Making a small, unhappy noise, Sehun swooped in and kissed Chanyeol, lightly, but right on the lips.

Surprised, Chanyeol allowed it, and then realized he was standing there like a moron and tugged Sehun closer. The kiss was sweet, chaste. Lovely. When they broke apart, Chanyeol rested his head against the side of Sehun’s.

“I don’t like to think that the manor might take you the way it’s taken so many others,” Sehun whispered. “You deserve to live, Chanyeol. You should run.”

Chanyeol took a deep breath. “If I run,” he said, “you will be pulled back into your torment, reliving your death every week. And so will all of the others I have saved.” Sehun made another unhappy noise, and Chanyeol smiled a little, rueful. “There are still at least six more ghosts locked in torment. They all deserve to be saved, too. What is the risk of my life, against the souls of eleven others?”

Long arms squeezed him tightly. “I hope you can do it,” Sehun said. “And when you do, burn the house to the ground. It’s evil.”

Chanyeol didn’t really know what to say to that, so instead, he just kissed Sehun again.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

The day went by too quickly. As the afternoon wore on, Sehun started to look uncomfortable, fidgeting, and when Chanyeol asked him what was wrong, he said, “I think I have to get back to the manor.”

Just like that, anxiety was fluttering in Chanyeol’s chest. He held Sehun’s hand the entire drive home.

When they got inside, Chanyeol took Sehun back to his sitting room and pulled him down onto the couch. Sehun all but crawled into his lap, his shoulders shuddering, and Chanyeol held him tightly and tried not to think about the ticking clock.

“There’s something I need to show you,” he said.

Just as he had when Kyungsoo was reading Sehun’s letter, Chanyeol moved over to the windows as Sehun read Kyungsoo’s. It took all he had not to burst into tears at the sight of the fading sunlight cutting through the trees - he had never dreaded a sunset more.

“Why… why didn’t you show me this earlier?” Sehun asked quietly.

Turning, Chanyeol regarded him. Sehun’s eyes were wet, his mouth trembling a little, and something inside Chanyeol broke. “I was afraid that if I did, you wouldn’t want to spend the day with me,” he admitted.

Sehun huffed out a breath. “What was that you said, about you being fine alone?” he asked. Chanyeol winced, but Sehun reached out a hand, so Chanyeol went to the couch and let him cuddle into his side. “He loved me,” Sehun said, in tones of disbelief. “There were more words than that, but that’s basically what it all comes down to. He loved me. He said he would be waiting for me, on the other side of the light.”

Chanyeol had suspected as much, but it was good to know. “Does that make it less scary?”

“Hah. Yes, in a way. Yes, it does.” Sehun’s hands balled into Chanyeol’s shirt. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you behind.”

Oh, God. “If I don’t stay,” Chanyeol said, “if I don’t beat this thing, then both of you will be right back here again, trapped, and you’ll forget that you love each other. More than ever before, I cannot fail.”

Sehun sat up. “I believe that you might even be able to do it,” he said. “I hope you will. Please don’t die.” He leaned in and kissed Chanyeol, harder than before. Chanyeol kissed him back, memorizing the feeling.

Too soon, Sehun pulled away, looked to the side. “Oh,” he said, very softly.

Chanyeol covered his mouth with one hand. He couldn’t even speak. Sehun flashed him a teary smile and stood.

“I have to go,” he said. “Chanyeol… Thank you. It was the best last day anyone could have asked for.”

He took a step forward and faded away, and Chanyeol burst into tears, wracking, horrible sobs that came from deep inside his gut. The room darkened as the sun disappeared, and still Chanyeol cried, lost in the knowledge that Sehun was dead, never to return.

The blanket slid around his shoulders. Chanyeol buried himself in it, pulling it close around him, wishing like hell that he could cry into Kris’s shoulder instead. But he couldn’t, so as Kris sat next to him, solemn-faced, with a translucent, chilly hand resting on Chanyeol’s knee, he took what comfort the blanket could give him.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol knew that the easy bits were behind him when he shocked awake on Friday morning to the sound of a scream, so high and horrible that he wasn’t certain if he’d heard it with his ears or only in his dreams. The heart-pounding sense of dread was pretty darn real, though, as was his heated, flushed, sweaty skin and the feeling like he couldn’t draw in enough air no matter how hard he gasped. His windows were steamed over, as if he’d turned on a heat lamp inside his bedroom, and only when he stumbled out onto the back patio could he breathe normally again.

It was so cold outside that his breath came out as fog, and Chanyeol sucked in the frigid air gratefully, bracing his hands on his knees. He glared back at the house, cranky at being awoken in such an ugly way.

“If you’re trying to piss me off,” he muttered, “it’s working. Keep it up.”

Once he had his breath back and his body temperature was back down to something manageable, Chanyeol went back inside and started up his coffee machine. 

He had five ghosts left, besides Kris. For two he had names, but wasn’t sure how to predict when they would appear; the other three he knew when they would appear but he had no names. He figured that those three would probably be a better bet for being able to find information, so he decided he was going to spend the morning, at least, down in the town, digging through records.

Chanyeol knew that it would be safer for him to spend as much time away from the house as possible, but he still had no real idea when Kim Jongdae would appear, or what other clues he might gather from the house, so he was planning to stick around as much as he could manage. The more he learned, the faster he could get the rest of the spirits taken care of, the sooner he would be _really_ safe.

Jongdae’s obituary had said that the fire had started in the “late afternoon,” and Lu Han’s scene took place after sundown, so Chanyeol figured he could reasonably be away for the mornings, anyway. Once his coffee was ready, he packed it up in a travel mug and hit the road.

Knowing that the jumper was the first ghost to die narrowed Chanyeol’s date range down somewhat, which was helpful. Kris died in 1837, and the next ghost, as far as Chanyeol could tell, was Lu Han in 1879. A 40-year range was still quite a lot, but Chanyeol had the names of several of the owners of the manor during that time, so maybe cross-referencing would turn something up.

‘Maybe’ was the operative word, as it turned out. Chanyeol was in the city’s records for five hours straight, but the fact of the matter was, the records from that far back were just too spotty, too incomplete. There was no mention of a young man having died at Dragon Manor during that time, let alone one of the right age and cause of death. He was pretty certain he’d ruled out any time past about 1870-ish, which was where the records were more complete, but that wasn’t really a whole lot of help. Frustrated, he decided to call it a day, and headed back to the manor.

When he pulled up to the house, the first thing he noticed was that the sunlight was gone, hidden away by foreboding-looking stormclouds. He thought that was kind of odd - and found himself to be correct when he checked his phone, and saw that the weather for his coordinates was supposedly sunny and warm.

Then, he noticed the light in the tower.

Not the third floor library, like last time. Not the bedroom, either. The tiny, sixth-floor room at the very top of the stairs, lit with what appeared to be a single, flickering candle, dancing murkily behind the dirty glass.

“Kris,” Chanyeol breathed, and burst into a jog.

He detoured quickly through his bedroom and picked up his recently-sharpened axe, just in case; the memory of getting locked into that room was still fresh in his mind. With it in hand - held firmly up near the blade, sharp edge pointed away from himself - he dragged the heavy bookcase open and started up the spiral staircase.

The stairs rocked dangerously under his feet. There was no reason for them to be doing that, Chanyeol had just re-bolted them down only a few days ago, so he grit his teeth and doubled his pace, getting himself up those stairs as fast as his long legs could carry him.

The trapdoor at the top was latched, and wouldn’t budge under Chanyeol’s hands. “No, you don’t,” he muttered, and wedged the blade of the axe under the latch. It took some muscle, but he was able to lever the latch open, and he pushed the trapdoor up and warily peeked over the floorline.

It was Kris, as he’d guessed. Half-stripped down and curled up against the wall of the tiny room, crying into his upbent knees. There was ghostly blood on the floor, dripping from cuts and welts across his torso and arms, pooling shallowly around the equally-ghostly candleholder that sat by his side.

Chanyeol climbed into the room. The trapdoor snapped shut behind him, too fast to be natural, but Chanyeol didn’t care. If he had to chop his way out later, he would. All that mattered was in front of him.

“Kris,” Chanyeol murmured. “Hey. Kris, can you hear me?”

There was no answer. This was pretty clearly a memory, so chances were good Kris wouldn’t be able to communicate with him until it was over, or almost over. Chanyeol sat at Kris’s side, thankful he was still wearing his outdoor jacket. The room was already chilly from the wind blowing through the broken window, without even considering the extra chill from sitting so close to a ghost.

Had the tower room been locked like this on purpose? Was Kris reliving the memory of being imprisoned in his own home? Alone, so high up, in a room too small to even lay down flat… Chanyeol couldn’t even imagine it.

“It’s okay,” Chanyeol said, uselessly. He had no idea if Kris could hear him, but if there was a chance, he was going to try. “It’ll be over soon. It’s going to be alright.”

Kris continued to cry, senseless to his comfort. Chanyeol stayed right where he was, holding silent vigil over him, until the candle burned down and Kris’s spectre finally faded.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Amber insisted on coming over the next day. It had been a few weeks, and though her tone was cheerful, Chanyeol could tell she was determined to check up on him.

She wanted to see the improvements he’d made to the house, so Chanyeol took her around a little bit, showing her the new floor-height table in the breakfast room, the restoration work he’d done on the front door, the recently replaced lighting in the library. He took her into his bedroom to show her the new curtains he’d finally installed, and realized a little too late that the axe was still sitting next to his nightstand; as she went over to the windows to look at the view, he quickly kicked it underneath the bed.

“What’s that?” Amber asked, and Chanyeol jumped a little, guilty.

“What’s what?” he asked, trying for innocent.

She gave him an odd look, and reached around his shoulder. “That,” she said, pulling back with paper in her hand.

Oh. Shit. “It’s... um.”

Amber eyed the drawing. “This is you,” she said. “Someone drew you? Damn, this is really good.” She cocked her head and turned the paper, looking at it from a different angle. “They even captured the way your mouth hangs open to the right when you snore. Dude, who are you letting draw you while you sleep?”

Flushing red, Chanyeol plucked the drawing from her hands and put it back on his dresser. “No one, it’s nothing,” he said, very stupidly and obviously.

Propping her hands on her hips, Amber gave him an eyebrow. “You’re seeing someone,” she guessed. “And you haven’t told me.”

“It’s not like that,” Chanyeol protested, but he knew exactly how fake he sounded. Quickly, he scrambled for an explanation. “It’s - I’m not really - look, we’re taking it slow, okay? After what happened with Minho, I’m not jumping into anything without being really sure.”

Mentioning his ex did the trick. Amber immediately softened. “Okay,” she said, “I’m sorry. I get it.” She sat on the edge of his bed, looking at him expectantly. “So? What’s their name? How did you meet them?”

Crap. Chanyeol flopped onto the bed next to her. “His name is Kris,” he said, and then immediately regretted it. He was only digging himself deeper. “I, uh. I met him down in the town. He lives sort of… nearby.”

Amber’s lips twitched at the corners. “You are _so_ red right now.”

Moaning, Chanyeol dropped his face into his hands. “Please don’t tease me about this,” he whined.

“But it’s so cute!” Amber pounded his back delightedly. “Okay, okay, I won’t give you the fifth degree. But I’m glad you have something going on, even if you’re not sure what, yet.” She squinted at him. “He better treat you right, or I’m coming for his ass.”

Chanyeol chuckled at the image. “He’s got his own problems, you know? But... I think he’s trying.” As he said it, he realized how true it actually was, and sobered. “He is. He’s trying to be good to me.”

And if Chanyeol succeeded at what he intended to do… Kris would pass on, walk into the light. He’d be gone forever.

Shit.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol was pretty sure the house was trying to kill him, and it didn’t seem to care too much if Amber noticed.

The first time, he wasn’t completely certain it was the house at all. He choked on his rice at dinner, coughing and spluttering, and it wasn’t exactly the _first_ time he’d tried to breathe his food but the timing of it seemed awfully suspect.

The second time, he stumbled on his way down the stairs. It was a bad fall, and he tumbled quite a ways down, but he was able to catch himself on the railing and stop before he hurt himself too badly. Amber teased him about his clumsiness, but Chanyeol couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t just tripped, but something had purposely tripped him.

But the third time, Chanyeol knew it was the house, because as they were headed to the west wing so Chanyeol could show off the two-story library, Kris suddenly appeared in the hallway off to the side, a spectre in the fading light of dusk. Chanyeol paused, surprised to see him, but Amber kept going - and _screamed_.

Chanyeol jerked back to reality and rushed to her side. A section of the floor that he _knew_ he’d crossed several times had given out, and Amber had caught herself on the nearby windowsill before she’d gone completely through the floor. His heart in his throat, Chanyeol hauled her up and out of the hole, supporting her weight until she determined that her leg wasn’t hurt, her jeans un-torn.

“Shit, dude,” she said, looking up at him wide-eyed. “It’s a good thing I’m not any heavier than I am!” She said it lightly, covering the tremble in her voice, but Chanyeol realized she was absolutely right. If he had gone first, he would have crashed all the way into the basement.

He looked over his shoulder, but Kris was gone. _Thank you,_ he mouthed, just in case the ghost was still watching. To Amber, he said, “Maybe it’s a sign that you should get going, huh? It’s getting kind of late.”

Amber protested, but it _was_ getting kind of late, and she had a long drive ahead. After Chanyeol examined her ankle, just to be absolutely certain she wasn’t downplaying a more serious injury, they said their goodnights and Chanyeol walked Amber out to her car.

As Amber pulled away, Chanyeol turned and glared at the house. “She has nothing to do with any of this,” he said. “You leave her the _fuck_ alone.”

Thunder crashed in a barely-clouded sky. Chanyeol pursed his lips angrily, but his heartbeat was flying in his ears. He wouldn’t be having Amber over anymore, then. Not until he was certain it was safe.

He tried to ignore the thought that tonight might be the last time he would see her. There was no way to know, and dwelling on it would paralyze him. Still, he pulled out his phone and shot her a quick text. 

_Let me know when you get home. <3_

He was tucking his phone back into his pocket and turning to head back into the house when he heard something that didn’t belong, something that made him freeze in place.

A horse’s whinny.

“What?” He turned towards the sound, eyes wide, and his eyes got wider as he realized what he was seeing. A ghostly carriage pulled by two lovely horses, clip-clopping daintily up the driveway, translucent in the moonlight.

It was so strange, so out of place, that it wasn’t until Chanyeol heard a terrified scream and pounding footsteps that he realized what was happening. He turned back towards the house and saw a flash of pale robes running past the gallery windows.

He had _seconds_. His hand went to his pocket, but of course the craft knife wasn’t there. A horrible and too-familiar roar sounded, and Chanyeol caught a glimpse of orange stripes flashing by the windows just as the horses screamed in fright, reared, and charged.

Chanyeol crouched low and scraped his palm over the rough pavement as hard as he could, ripping off layers of skin. Pain shot through his palm, the door to the manor opened, and Chanyeol screamed “ _Lu Han!_ ” and took off at a dead sprint.

Adrenaline made time seem to slow, but Chanyeol couldn’t afford to hesitate. Lu Han glanced in front of himself, terror written all over his face, and focused on Chanyeol just as Chanyeol dived, making sure his bloody hand hit Lu Han’s ghostly form first. Lu Han became corporeal as Chanyeol barrelled into him, knocking them both to the ground. The carriage, now also deadly real, thundered by, mere centimeters from Chanyeol’s feet.

Then, he heard the roar, and felt the thud of the ground as a huge tiger leaped from the front door and landed right next to them. He was on his feet so fast he didn’t even remember getting up, sheer adrenaline giving him the strength to haul Lu Han up after him and shove him back towards the house. Lu Han ran, and Chanyeol turned to face the tiger, thinking desperately that he only had to keep it distracted long enough for the grandfather clock to chime.

Snarling, the tiger advanced on him. Wishing like hell he had his axe, Chanyeol backed away, moving perpendicular to the house in an attempt to keep its attention off of Lu Han as the terrified young man reached the doors. Lu Han opened the door, and the click-thunk-creak made the tiger turn towards him, ears perking up.

Chanyeol backed up another few steps and clapped his hands sharply, wincing as the action drove tiny bits of asphalt into his scraped hand. Yellow eyes turned back to him, and advanced.

The garages? No, the porte-cochere was a dead end and it would take him too long to lift the rusted old garage doors. The garage where he’d saved Zitao had the busted-out window, but there was no way to close it and the tiger would have no issues following him in that way.

There was a side door, though. Right there, not too far. But it was locked, and he didn’t have his keys on him.

He took another step back, trying not to move too suddenly, trying to judge from the tiger’s body language how close it was to pouncing. “Kris,” he called, as loudly as he dared. “Kris, please. If you can hear me…” The tiger snarled, and Chanyeol swallowed down the hitch in his voice. “Please unlock the side door?”

The tiger crouched, muscles bunching under fur, and Chanyeol took off.

The door wasn’t far - ten strides, if that - but the tiger was _way_ faster. Chanyeol hit the door, and the tiger hit him. He screamed as huge claws raked down his side and hip.

The door opened. Chanyeol stumbled inside and slammed it shut in the tiger’s face, pressing his back to it and trying to hold himself together as the worst pain he’d ever felt made him want to collapse to the ground and shake to pieces. The door _thunked_ as the tiger threw itself against it, and Chanyeol cried out again, sinking to the ground as his legs gave out completely.

It took everything - _everything_ \- he had, but fear made him push through the pain and brace his good leg against the floor, wedging himself against the door to keep the tiger out. 

The minutes seemed to go on forever, and Chanyeol’s vision was blurring. He was losing a lot of blood - how much? Had the house already done him in? No, not now, not before he was done!

Chanyeol heard the chime of the grandfather clock, and passed out there, right on the floor of the east wing hallway.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol’s first thought when he came to was _huh, I’m alive._

His second thought was _wait, AM I alive? Am I a ghost?!_

His third thought was less of a thought, and more of an instinctive bolt-upright-and-gasp combo that was cut short by the shooting pains all up and down his right side. He cried out, winced, and collapsed back onto the floor, noting distantly that someone had put a pillow under his head.

And his side was cold. _Really_ cold.

Chanyeol looked. Kris was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him, his berobed form seeming to float oddly, not quite in contact with the wood floorboards. One of his hands was resting on Chanyeol’s hip, right over a wadded-up, bloodsoaked item of clothing that Chanyeol didn't recognize, laying over his side. Chanyeol lifted it carefully, revealing three three nasty parallel lacerations down his side. He grimaced, feeling ill, and pressed the cloth back to his skin, trying to keep pressure on the wound. 

“You need a doctor,” Kris murmured. “The chill is slowing the bleeding but there isn’t anything else I can do.”

Yeah. He felt woozy from blood loss, and it fucking hurt. “Lu Han?” he asked.

“Safe, and alive. Thanks to you.” Kris frowned. “That was _reckless_. If I hadn’t heard you…”

Chanyeol didn’t answer him, because frankly, his entire _life_ was reckless these days. Carefully, he turned himself enough to get his phone out of his pocket and called emergency services.

After he’d told them where he was and how to find the house, he collapsed back against the pillow. “It hurts,” he whispered.

Kris’s brow compressed. “I know,” he said. “I wish I could help.”

“You’re here,” Chanyeol murmured. “That helps.” He furrowed his own brow. “Are you more… in focus?”

A completely un-humorous laugh. “You’re bleeding,” Kris said. “A _lot_. The house is feeding on you. So, yes.” His expression twisted up. “As you grow weaker, I will grow stronger.”

Chanyeol tried on a smile. “At least _something_ good comes of it,” he said.

Kris’s expression cycled through half a dozen emotions, but before he could answer, footsteps interrupted them. Lu Han knelt at Chanyeol’s side, bringing with him the blanket from Chanyeol’s sitting room, which he wrapped carefully around Chanyeol’s good side, avoiding his injury. Chanyeol cuddled into it.

Lu Han’s outer robe was missing, which explained exactly what Chanyeol was currently using to soak up his own blood. Pushing Chanyeol’s hands out of the way, Lu Han put both of his own on the robe, holding the pressure against Chanyeol’s wounds.

“Hi,” Chanyeol said, still groggy. “You alright?”

Lu Han didn’t answer him, and to Chanyeol’s surprise, glanced towards Kris, as if for help. “He doesn’t speak much Korean,” Kris said. He said something in Mandarin, and Lu Han answered, flashing a tight smile down at Chanyeol as he did so. Chanyeol didn’t have to know him well to see he was really worried about Chanyeol’s injury. “Yes, he’s fine. Better than before, even.”

“He can see you,” Chanyeol breathed.

“Yes. I told you, I am growing stronger.” Kris glanced at Lu Han. “And he could see me before, in any case.”

Chanyeol glanced between them. “Does he know…?”

“I explained it to him. He knows where he is, and when, and for how long.” Chanyeol tried to sit up, so Kris tried to put a hand on his chest, as if to push him back down. When he couldn’t make contact, he made a frustrated noise. Lu Han did it for him, urging Chanyeol to relax.

Reaching out, Chanyeol took Lu Han’s hand in his own. As with the other ghosts, the fact that they were total strangers didn’t matter; Lu Han gratefully clasped his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said, as Kris began to translate for him. “I won’t be able to stay with you tonight. I need to go to the hospital.”

Lu Han shook his head and answered. “You have given me a night of peace,” Kris translated. “I know now that it was all real, and I was not losing my mind. You don’t know what a weight that lifts from me.”

Sirens were approaching. Chanyeol thought to himself vaguely that the ambulance must have broken a lot of speed limits to get all the way out to him this quickly. “I am sorry to ask this of you,” Chanyeol said, “but please, I am trying to find the names of all of the ghosts who have died here. If there’s anything you can tell me…?”

Cocking his head, Lu Han thought about it. “I don’t think so,” he said, through Kris. “I am sorry. I thought it was all in my mind; it never occurred to me to look into the history of the house for clues.”

Chanyeol deflated. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll figure it out. You can stay in my room tonight if you wish. I’ll try to be back before sunrise, but if I am not…” He flashed a smile. “It was very nice to meet you.”

A knock on the front door. Lu Han got up and answered it, silently leading the paramedics to where Chanyeol lay.

Kris stayed right where he was, at Chanyeol’s side. The paramedics didn’t see him, moved through him as if he wasn’t there. As they got Chanyeol up into the stretcher and wheeled him out of the house, Kris and Lu Han walked beside him, all the way out to the driveway. Lu Han bowed his thanks to the paramedics and went back inside, but Kris stayed there, watching, until Chanyeol was driven down the driveway and out of sight.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol was kept confined to a hospital bed for three days.

It was restful, but boring as fuck. He didn’t want to have to explain what had happened to anyone - not his sister, and certainly not Amber - so he hadn’t told anyone he was there. To the doctors, he lied through his teeth, saying that he’d had an accident while working on the house. They clearly didn’t believe him, but he refused to say more, so they just treated the wounds without comment.

On the afternoon of the third day, a physical therapist came and tested his ability to walk. He was admonished over and over to be careful, warned that if he twisted the wrong way or banged his hip or stretched too much that the wounds could re-open, despite the sutures holding his skin closed.

Finally, on Wednesday afternoon, Chanyeol was released. With antibiotics, painkillers, and scar-minimizing cream in hand, he took a taxi back to the house and stiffly walked himself up the stairs.

He hesitated at the door. His car was right there, and he had his phone and his wallet, all that he needed to start over. If he left right now, he never had to come back. He didn’t really owe this house anything, he didn’t owe the spirits that were left anything. He’d already sacrificed sleep, tears, blood, flesh, for what?

Glancing to the side, Chanyeol’s gaze landed on the side door. He’d called Kris’s name, and Kris had saved his life. Was he really going to give up after that?

Chanyeol entered the manor.

The foyer was silent. Chanyeol had half-expected to see the tiger pacing in the great room beyond, but there was, of course, nothing there.

“Kris?”

No answer. Disappointed and uneasy, Chanyeol made his way back to his bedroom to change.

To his surprise, there was something sitting out on his bed. His notebook, opened to a page near the back, with his pen lying crosswise on it. Curious, Chanyeol sat down on the bed and picked it up.

It was a short note, written in Chinese, with an odd little drawing underneath it, like a crude map. Pulling out his phone, Chanyeol quickly downloaded a text translation app. It took a few minutes for it to install, and a few more for him to figure out how to use it, and then a few more for it to work out the translation from the photo he snapped.

_I thought of this after you were already gone. I hope that it helps you. Go to the north along this road, walk for about half of an hour. There is a graveyard._

_Thank you for saving me. Good luck, friend. - Han_

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Since he was still hopeful that he could accidentally stumble across Kim Jongdae’s scene, Chanyeol waited until the next morning to follow up on Lu Han’s clue. It was getting colder and Chanyeol was all too aware that he needed to heal as quickly as possible, so instead of walking up the road, he drove.

The graveyard was right where Lu Han had said it would be, a little ways off from the road, overgrown, and _old_. Chanyeol was pretty sure no one had been buried in this particular graveyard for decades, and very few of the graves had any kind of flowers or offerings.

Pulling his coat closer around him, Chanyeol started to walk up and down the rows.

It took a while, and he wasn’t really sure what he was looking for. He stopped often, doing math on the dates of birth and death, looking for any young men who were 25 or 26 when they died.

About halfway back, he finally found something. A family plot, with a huge, elaborate marker, very fancy. One of the names on it was Kim Junmyeon - born May 22, 1827, and died March 25, 1854.

Chanyeol did the math. This man had died two months before his 27th birthday, and - he checked - yes, March 25, 1845 was a Saturday. Was this his jumper?

It was a better clue than anything else he had so far, so Chanyeol took a photo of the grave marker, and added Kim Junmyeon’s name to his little chart, with a question mark. He could give it a shot, anyway.

“Thanks, Lu Han,” Chanyeol whispered, and kept walking.

He didn’t really expect to find much more - one clue was already more than he had frankly anticipated - but as he walked further back into the graveyard and the temperature under the trees dropped, Chanyeol spotted another large family plot, this one with multiple stones.

Wu.

Shocked, he stopped, and examined the plot.

It was only three graves, and the furthest one to the left was damaged. The grave itself appeared to have been torn up at some point, the ground angled differently than the surroundings and grass refusing to grow over it. The headstone was broken in such a way so that only part of the “Wu” was visible. But the dates were still readable - November 6, 1810, to November 6, 1837.

He’d died on his birthday. His twenty-seventh birthday.

None of the information Chanyeol had found until now had listed Kris’s date of birth, and so he hadn’t put that together before, but this made a number of puzzle pieces click into place, all in a rush. Lu Han had died the night before his twenty-seventh birthday, and Kim Junmyeon two months before. The frozen ghost, he’d screamed something about only having to make it one more night.

One of the first questions Kris had asked him was, _how old are you?_

Was there a deadline? A _literal_ deadline? Chanyeol would turn twenty-seven in one month and three days… Was that how long he had to live?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/unnie_bee), [askfm](https://ask.fm/unnie_bee), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/unnie_bee)!


	8. Chapter 8

 

_Saturday, October 26, 2019_

 

_Hey, loser, am I seeing you tomorrow?_

Chanyeol closed Amber’s text without answering it. He didn’t know what to say, really - any excuse he made, she would find a way around, because she was worried about him. Chanyeol knew it, and it made him feel weird inside, guilty and squidgy. She cared about him, but he had to push her away right now, for her own safety.

That, and she still had no idea he was injured. The lacerations were healing pretty well, all things considered, but the combination of antibiotics and painkillers was making Chanyeol nauseous and woozy, and he wasn’t anywhere near his usual speed and agility. If he had to run for his life right now, he might be fucked.

And the house was making it pretty clear that that was a real possibility. Chanyeol had had shit thrown at his head, pipes burst, appliances turn on by themselves, screaming at all hours and blood coating the mirrors when he tried to shave. He was starting to understand why Lu Han had acted insane, why so many of the ghosts seemed so terrified in their final moments, but he was _determined_ not to let it get to him.

He was getting worried about Kris, too. The ghost had appeared to him only twice since he’d returned from the hospital. Once was just to sit and talk with Chanyeol as he ate breakfast, but once, Chanyeol found him up in the tower library, screaming and throwing books in a blind rage, completely senseless to Chanyeol calling his name. Seeing him like that had shaken Chanyeol, _badly_ , even though he knew it was only a memory. Kris’s hurt and anger had been so palpable, Chanyeol himself had gone down to his room and cried for a good hour just from the emotions he’d absorbed secondhand.

At one AM on Saturday morning, running on about four hours of sleep, Chanyeol dragged himself, his lantern, and a blanket up the spiral staircase to the northeast tower. There was no moon visible, making the stars seem extra bright, the Milky Way above only partially obscured by dark, wispy clouds. He spread himself out in the very center of the fifth-floor terrace, laying back on the blanket so he could stretch out his bad leg.

The night was beautiful, if chilly. Quiet. Chanyeol hadn’t caught the beginning of Junmyeon’s scene yet, so he had no idea how long it would take him to appear, how much time he would have to convince Junmyeon not to jump.

Well, if it came down to it, he had his craft knife in his pocket. He could always just hold Junmyeon down until the clock chimed, right?

The minutes ticked by slowly, and Chanyeol was quite tired, still not feeling up to his full strength. He fully intended to remain awake for the hour, but that didn’t happen - he drifted off, only to be rudely awoken a while later by a familiarly panicked voice.

“No, no! I shan’t listen, I shan’t!”

Chanyeol bolted upright, groggy and confused. The ghost! Shit, how long did he have? Shaking the fuzziness from his vision, Chanyeol tried to focus, even as he scrambled stiffly to his feet.

Junmyeon was already only a few steps away from the edge, too terrified to realize the danger he was in.

Fuck! “Kim Junmyeon!” Chanyeol yelled, reaching out one hand as his other dug in his pocket for the knife. “Look out!”

It was loud enough that Junmyeon heard him, turned his head sharply to look at him, widened his eyes in surprise. Unfortunately, it seemed to freak him out even more, because he stumbled back another few steps, until his back was pressed against the railing.

“You’re _going to fall!_ Don’t move!” That worked, where a less specific warning had not. Junmyeon froze, seeming to realize his predicament for the first time.

The bricks under him started to slide.

Junmyeon and Chanyeol lurched forward at the same time, Chanyeol thumbing the cap off his knife as he went. The bricks dropped, but Junmyeon was pitched far enough forward this time that he was able to grab onto the unbroken part of the railing, and slid down until he was dangling off of the tower, screaming.

Blood flew, and then the knife flew after it as Chanyeol tossed it haphazardly on the terrace. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the shooting pains up his side, and wrapped his hands around Junmyeon’s arms as they became solid against his fingers. He pulled, and Junmyeon strained, scrambling to get purchase against the side of the tower with his feet.

Chanyeol felt the floor under him begin to shift as well, sliding, _dropping._ Gritting his teeth, he kicked one leg out, braced it against the railing, and _pushed_ himself backwards, hauling Junmyeon halfway up. Junmyeon was able to get one knee swung up onto the terrace, and even as the bricks kept sliding he pulled himself all the way up.

They both scrambled away from the crumbling bricks, but the entire tower was shaking now, and Chanyeol suddenly feared he’d put himself in too vulnerable a position, that the tower was going to entirely collapse and kill them both. He tried to get to his feet, but he was too unsteady and the rumbling was too much; he couldn’t quite get himself upright.

“Kris!” he screamed. Stupid. What the hell could Kris do?

For a long moment, the tower _listed_ , leaning so heavily that looking straight ahead he could see trees instead of stars. Junmyeon clung to him, and Chanyeol braced himself against the bricks as best he could and held on tight.

Then, it was over. As if the threat had never been, the tower was suddenly back into place, the extra crumbling bricks back where they belonged. The night was still, but for the very, very faint chime of the grandfather clock.

Junmyeon pulled away from Chanyeol, scooting back and scrambling to his feet. “Who are you?!”

“Whoa, hey.” Surprised, Chanyeol held up both hands palms-out, a gesture of conciliation. “I’m not here to hurt you, I’m here to _save_ you.”

“I don’t know you,” Junmyeon said, “and it is deep in the middle of the night. How did you get into my home?”

Hoo boy. “Do you want to go inside?” Chanyeol asked. “I will explain everything.” So far, the house had always remained totally dormant in a ghost’s last moments, but Chanyeol didn’t completely trust that and this terrace was just a little too precarious for his peace of mind.

Junmyeon crossed his arms and glared. Chanyeol could see that his hands were shaking. “I will go nowhere with you,” he said. “Explain yourself.”

So Chanyeol did. He stayed seated on the ground as he did so, trying to seem as earnest and non-threatening as possible. Junmyeon remained standing for a while, but eventually, as Chanyeol explained and convinced and showed him the photograph of his headstone, he ended up sitting crosslegged on the blanket, elbows braced on knees and head dropped into his hands.

He was silent for so long that Chanyeol couldn’t help but to reach out to him, tentatively patting his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, uselessly.

Junmyeon heaved in a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. “Everyone I have ever known is long since dead,” he murmured. “And I have… How long?”

Chanyeol looked at his watch. “About three and a half hours,” he said. “Until the sun rises.”

A laugh, slightly hysterical. “There is no point, then,” Junmyeon said, “no point in trying to do anything. I may as well just sit here and wait for Death to come.”

“I’ll stay here with you,” Chanyeol murmured.

Junmyeon glanced up, his tight expression softening a bit. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to, um…” Chanyeol made some rather unhelpful gestures, feeling stupid. “Lay down? I just - with the others, the physical contact seemed to help.”

He got a skeptical eyebrow, but eventually Junmyeon nodded. They spread out on the blanket, arranging themselves.

“Oh,” Chanyeol said, “sorry. Not that side. Here, come over here.”

Junmyeon rearranged, moving to Chanyeol’s left side. “I saw the way you were moving, earlier,” he said. “You are injured?”

Chanyeol explained what had happened, and even pulled up his shirt to show the stitched-up wounds on his right side, disappearing into his waistband. “It makes wearing pants a bit difficult.”

“The _rug_ caused this?” Junmyeon asked incredulously. “It is ugly, but it isn’t _alive_.”

“No more than anything else in this house is, anyway,” Chanyeol muttered.

“Ah. Yes, I suppose that is true.” Junmyeon sighed. His stiffness was beginning to relax, making himself comfortable against Chanyeol’s side. He was _very_ warm, which struck Chanyeol as being ironic, for a ghost. “I must apologize. The rug was a gift from my uncle, I was obligated to display it. I had no idea the manor would corrupt it.”

Surprised, Chanyeol looked down at him. “It didn’t come with the house?”

“No. Is that significant?”

“I… it might be? I assumed it had been a part of the house since the time the original owner died. But if it was brought in later, that means that the house really _can_ take things over, anything that is brought in.” He shrugged. “I burned it. I was hoping that would make the tiger stop appearing, but it apparently that doesn’t matter.”

Junmyeon snorted. “Good. I didn’t like it, anyway.” He shifted, adjusting his position. “Tell me of the world now,” he requested. “It must be so very different.”

Chanyeol had done this a few times now, so it was relatively easy for him to ramble on the subject. He talked quietly for quite a while, watching the stars above move, and then slowly fade as the sky began to lighten.

A chill across his left side stopped him mid-ramble. He turned his head, and found Kris kneeling on the blanket next to him.

“Morning,” Chanyeol said.

Kris inclined his head, returning the sentiment. “He is asleep.”

Chanyeol looked, and sure enough, Junmyeon was completely passed out against his shoulder. “I’m this close to joining him,” Chanyeol admitted, smiling fondly.

“He doesn’t have much time left,” Kris murmured. “Will you let him go in his sleep?”

Looking at his watch, Chanyeol sighed. “Just a few more minutes,” he promised. “Then I’ll wake him. Just in case he remembers anything important.”

Kris’s expression compressed. “I will take my leave, then,” he said.

“What? Why? No, stay.”

“I would not be welcome,” Kris insisted, glancing over at Junmyeon. “My face should not be the last he sees as he moves on; it’s bad enough it was the last he saw when he died.”

Chanyeol pursed his lips stubbornly. “There’s nothing wrong with your face,” he insisted.

Caught by surprise, Kris chuckled. “Thank you. But I am a different - ah - person, than I was a century ago.” His gaze shifted to Junmyeon’s sleeping expression, and he sighed. “I was so confused. So angry.”

Junmyeon stirred, groaning, and blinked his eyes open. “What…” His eyes focused on Kris, and immediately he startled, scrambling upright and shoving himself away.

“It’s okay!” Chanyeol said, sitting up himself and holding his hands out placatingly. “He won’t hurt you, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

“He is a demon,” Junmyeon spat.

Shit. Chanyeol glanced at Kris, who looked disappointed but unsurprised by this reaction. “He is a victim,” Chanyeol said softly, “the same as you.”

Junmyeon did not look convinced, but he didn’t move any further away, so that was something. Kris remained where he was, watching them.

Chanyeol prodded Kris in his ghostly knee. “I think you might owe him an explanation,” he muttered.

Kris blinked at him in surprise, then grimaced, then sighed. “I do,” he agreed. “If he will hear it.”

They both looked to Junmyeon, but Junmyeon’s expression remained stiff, shuttered. That wasn’t an outright refusal, though, so Kris gave it a shot.

“You were the first thing that I became aware of, when I became aware,” he said quietly. “I did not know what I was. I did not know that I had died, or that my form would be frightening to you. I did not understand why you seemed to ignore me, and then later, why you recoiled from me.” He raised his gaze and met Junmyeon’s. “It has been well over a century, and I understand now what I am. But that does not change what I put you through. I apologize.” He bowed from the waist. “I would take it back, if I could.”

Silence. Chanyeol thought the apology was surprisingly eloquent and respectful, and found himself proud of Kris for being willing to humble himself like that, to admit his mistakes. 

Junmyeon didn’t seem convinced. “You murdered me,” he said, very plainly. “You tortured me, destroyed my mind, and then you lead me to my death. More, you have locked me in my own hell, to relive this horror over and over, for _decades_.” Chanyeol’s eyes widened. The sun was almost risen - was Junmyeon remembering? “I will not forgive you, for that is an injury which can never _be_ forgiven. As you have condemned me to hell, so do I condemn you.” He sneered. “Go to hell.”

_Damn_. Feeling helpless and a little queasy, Chanyeol looked between the two ghosts. Kris kept his eyes down, but Junmyeon, now nearly as translucent as Kris, got to his feet. “Chanyeol,” he said, his tone softening, “thank you. Please end this torture if you can. I do not think my spirit could stand to be drawn back here yet another time.”

Oh, wait, fuck, really? “You’ve been saved before,” Chanyeol realized. “The man who saved you, do you remember, did he tell you his name?”

Junmyeon cocked his head, and thought about it. “Yes. His name was Kim Minseok,” he said. “He told me that he was my great-grandnephew. A very odd notion, to be sure.”

Another name. Yes! “I’m going to do everything I can,” Chanyeol promised quickly. “Please, rest easy. If I have any power at all to stop it, nothing will disturb your spirit again.”

Smiling, Junmyeon nodded to him. “I hope you can,” he said. “Goodbye.” He turned, took a few steps, and faded away.

Closing his eyes, Chanyeol blew out a long, slow breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I shouldn’t have pushed it.”

“No, you were right,” Kris murmured. “And even if he could not accept my regrets, I think perhaps I needed to voice them. At least he heard me.”

Chanyeol opened one eye and regarded Kris carefully. “You didn’t need to hear his response, though.”

“I did. And he is right.” One side of Kris’s mouth turned up, a half-smile. “What I have done and been in the past is not forgivable. I cannot undo the damage I have done.”

“But you can move forward from it,” Chanyeol pointed out.

“Can I? I am a ghost, Chanyeol. Can a ghost really change?”

He disappeared from view, leaving Chanyeol alone on the terrace.

What the heck. _Rude_. “Yes you can!” Chanyeol yelled after him. “You _already have!_ And conveniently disappearing so that you can always have the last word is _cheating!_ ”

There was no response but for a soft, deep chuckle in his ear, and the chill of ghostly fingers brushing gently down his cheek.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Chanyeol was losing sleep.

As if the nightmares weren’t bad enough - and they _were_ \- the house kept waking him up in one way or another, as if purposely trying to torture him via sleep deprivation. He didn’t put it past the place to be that cruel, anyway.

He was living on catnaps and coffee, and had nearly died four times in forty-eight hours. He was jumping at any shadow and every sound, all his senses on high alert, all the time. It was utterly exhausting.

But Chanyeol was not giving up yet. He had four ghosts left, and with any luck, after sunset on Tuesday, he’d be down to three. Of those three, he only needed one name, and one date and time of death scene, and he had just under a month to finish it, if his deadline theory was right.

Hopefully, he could manage it faster than that. He wasn’t sure he would survive an entire month of this, and he was getting really, really worried about Kris, too. As if the house could sense how close he was getting, the number of times Chanyeol found Kris’s ghost reliving scenes of torture, despair, rage, and isolation was increasing, and the number of times he found the ghost to be aware, calm, rational was noticeably decreasing. Kris was losing his grip on reality, losing his connection to Chanyeol.

Chanyeol could leave at any time, and he knew it. He could walk out, drive away, never return - or return after his birthday, at which point, he theorized, the house would no longer be interested in him and he would no longer see any ghosts. He’d know they were there, of course, but they wouldn’t appear to him.

The fact that he _could_ leave is part of what pushed him to stay, to ride this out as long as he possibly could. If it got too bad, if he really couldn’t take it anymore, he would go. But he wasn’t at that point, not yet.

Kris needed him. He wasn’t ready to give up.

Knowing he needed more clues, Chanyeol forced himself to witness the tiger scene in its fullest, something he’d been studiously avoiding ever since he’d figured out that it played on Sundays, a bare few minutes before sundown.

It was a longer scene, and a _nasty_ one, definitely the worst he’d witnessed. Chanyeol actually ended up following the tiger first, since the beast appeared in the great room, curled up in front of the fireplace, a good half an hour before the scene was meant to take place. The tiger didn’t move, and thankfully, didn’t seem to notice Chanyeol, for a good ten minutes or so. Then, as if prodded, it got up, stretched, and padded out of the room.

Chanyeol followed the tiger through the house, tailing it at a distance, until they entered the main library. It was lit by a pleasant little fire in the fireplace, and a young man, handsome in a refined sort of way, was peacefully reading in a nice armchair. His clothes were disheveled, casual, and very late Joseon in style, but his hair was short and neat, not long the way the older Joseon ghosts wore theirs. Turn of the century, perhaps?

He didn’t get a chance to observe further, because at that moment the ghost realized there was a _tiger_ in the room and startled out of his chair so badly, he practically seemed to levitate. The tiger advanced, and the man backed away, but the library only had one exit and so he was quickly backed into the shelves, trapped.

Or, at least, Chanyeol _assumed_ he was trapped, but then the man pulled on a candlestick that was on one of the shelves, and _disappeared through the bookcase_.

“Crap,” Chanyeol said in surprise, as the tiger bounded after the ghost and disappeared. He ran after them, attempting to find what must be a secret door, but he quickly realized the candlestick was also ghostly, set over a very small lever rusted into the bookcase. He didn’t have a way to open the secret door in this time.

Rather than try to fight with it, Chanyeol raced back and looped around, wracking his brain to figure out where that passage must open to. It had to be the hallway that connected the master suite to the west wing, and as Chanyeol ran down the west gallery, he found that he was right. As he turned the corner, the tiger was disappearing up the west wing stairs - the ones that were covered in rubble from the collapse.

“Damnit.” Chanyeol cocked his head, listening; he could hear gasps and running footsteps but it was too difficult to tell which way the chase was headed. He decided he’d have better luck returning to the great room and waiting there.

Not knowing which direction they would come from, he positioned himself at one of the doors that led out onto the back patio, with the doorknob in hand in case he had to get out quickly. It didn’t take too long. The ghost ran into the room from the foyer, having clearly come down the central stairs, and bolted right through, headed straight for the door Chanyeol was standing in front of.

He wasn’t fast enough. The tiger bounded in from the kitchen side, cutting the ghost off. Screaming, the ghost skidded into a turn and attempted to run back towards the front of the house.

The tiger pounced, and Chanyeol closed his eyes instinctively, trying to block out the awful noises, too horrified to move. The screaming stopped, and the crunching stopped shortly thereafter, but Chanyeol didn’t open his eyes until he heard the grandfather clock chime. 

A quarter to six, and nothing remained in the room except the bloody handprint on the far wall, the last thing the young man had touched in his desperate effort to get away.

Chanyeol ducked out onto the patio and into the frigid late-October air, letting the cold calm him down. His hands were shaking, his mind racing. He was going to have to face that himself, going to have to find a way to stop that from happening. But how?

The sun was already starting to set - he wasn’t going to get much time with this ghost.

His pocket started vibrating, making Chanyeol jump and swear. He tugged his phone out, figuring it was probably Amber and planning to mute it - but then he saw who the call was from, swore again, and accepted it.

“Minho?”

There was a pause, long enough that Chanyeol started to think he’d been pocket-dialed. Then, awkwardly, _“Hey, Yeol.”_

It should have been good to hear his voice, but Chanyeol was on-edge and not at all in the mood to deal with some personal bullshit right now. The hesitation in Minho’s tone - like he was afraid of what Chanyeol would say to him - ticked Chanyeol right off. “To what do I owe the honor of this call?” he asked, a little more snarkily than was really called for.

_“I, um. I guess I just wanted to check in with you. It’s been a while, and I know the way we left it was… not great.”_

Chanyeol snorted. “Sure, yeah. Well, I’m doing fine, you know? Living the high life.” He could hear his voice shaking, and took a deep breath to try and stop it, pulling the phone away from his face so Minho wouldn’t hear.

_“That’s good.”_ A beat of hesitation. _“Amber said you’d, um, there was an inheritance? Something about a mansion.”_

A solid block of icy shame sunk into Chanyeol’s stomach, all at once. “She asked you to check up on me, didn’t she,” he realized.

He could practically hear Minho’s wince. _“Shit, am I that obvious? Sorry, man. Yeah, she’s, uh, worried, I guess. You haven’t been responding to her.”_

“And she knew I’d pick up the phone if it was you calling me.” Guilt warred with anger, drawing bile up his throat. He should have given her a better excuse, instead of avoiding her like a goddamn coward. “Because I, a grown-ass 26-year-old man, cannot be fucking trusted to live on my own for two goddamn weeks.”

_“Dude, it’s not like there’s no precedent for you… She’s got reason to worry, alright?”_

“For me to what? Freak out? Completely lose my shit because you dumped me?”

_“Chanyeol -”_

“No, you know what? You’re the one who dumped _me_ , Minho, because _I wasn’t putting out enough for you._ ” His voice was trembling outright now, with all of the hurt and anger he hadn’t let himself voice for the past four months. He was too tired to hold this in anymore. “I loved you, I loved you so goddamn much, but just because I didn’t want to _fuck_ you every time you wanted it, you fucking left me. I tried to reach out to you, and _you_ shut me down. And hey, maybe you were right, maybe I did need the time to get over you, because I am definitely fucking over you right now.” He didn’t let Minho reply, because he was damn certain he didn’t want to hear what he said, no matter what it was. “Don’t call me again. If I ever forgive you, I’ll call you.”

He hung up, and resisted the urge to scream, to throw his phone across the yard. He wanted to text Amber immediately, with something like _don’t fucking use emotional blackmail to get ahold of me,_ but he managed to stop himself. He wasn’t in a good frame of mind to be reaching out to her right now, not if he still wanted to have a friend come morning.

Instead, he dropped to the patio and sat, his head in his hands, trying to force himself not to cry. Shit.

A blanket settled over his shoulders. Chanyeol jumped, startled, but of course, it was only Kris, sinking down to sit next to him on the patio with that otherworldly grace he had. Chanyeol wiped his eyes and gratefully pulled the blanket close - he was so angry, he hadn’t realized how cold he was.

“So you heard all of that, huh?” he asked.

Kris nodded. “It explains a few things,” he murmured. “I am sorry. That is a terrible reason to leave a lover.”

Chanyeol snorted. “Yeah, well, I am a terrible lover.” Kris’s brow furrowed, and Chanyeol sighed, his anger draining away and leaving only exhaustion behind. “I shouldn’t have been so shitty to him. He _was_ right to leave me, after all. He wasn’t happy.” Chanyeol shook his head. “I can’t fault him for getting out of a situation that made him unhappy. Hell, _I_ was unhappy, I was just too co-dependent to be able to break away myself.”

“If you were not right for each other, then you were not right for each other,” Kris said. “It does not cast any doubt on your suitability as a lover.”

“No, you don’t - ” Chanyeol sighed. “I’m being literal when I say that. I am a shitty lover. As in, I do not enjoy the act of making love, and avoid it at whatever cost, and deprive my ‘lovers’ of it.”

Kris watched his expression, his own unchanging.

“Do you even understand what I’m saying?” Chanyeol grumbled. “Sex, Kris. I avoid it. I refuse to have it.”

Black eyes crinkled at the corners. “As did I,” Kris said.

Chanyeol stared at him. “What?”

“Copulation. Sex. I avoided it, in life. I never performed these acts, the very idea of it repulsed me.” He wrinkled his nose. “It still does, to a degree. Not that I need worry about it, anymore.”

Literally _what._ “But - you were married,” Chanyeol said, confused. Kris smiled at him, secretive and sad, and Chanyeol put two and two together. “Oh my god, that’s why you said Jessica was your best friend, that’s why you wouldn’t have chosen to get married if not for her father.” Chanyeol blinked. “Was Jessica like you, then? Or - like us, I suppose?”

“Not exactly. Jessie preferred the company of women.” Kris’s expression darkened. “A fact which her father was aware of, and which angered him immensely.”

“You married her to protect her,” Chanyeol realized. “You were her beard.” Shit, that made _so_ much more sense.

Kris shrugged. “I loved her,” he said softly. “More than anything. Certainly more than she loved me, but I didn’t mind. As long as she was happy, so was I.” He looked out over the yard, unfocused. “I thought I would be content forever, just to have her near, to see her happy. And if her father had left us alone, I think I would have been.”

This was the only time Kris had ever talked about himself, talked about what had happened to him, and Chanyeol seized upon the opportunity. “The history books say you went insane,” he prompted.

A snort. “Of course they do. That is what Jung told everyone. The town, my business contacts, my friends… Probably Jessie too, though I never found out. He had already separated us.”

Chanyeol could see, from his expression, that this was upsetting Kris, but something told him he needed to know. He put a hand out, balancing it carefully in the air where Kris’s knee was not. The ghost’s foggy form felt thicker than usual, clammy, almost touchable, but not quite. “He locked you in the tower.”

“Yes,” Kris whispered. “For - I don’t know how long. Weeks, maybe months.”

“What did he want from you?”

The temperature around them suddenly dropped, so cold that Chanyeol’s lips immediately dried out and chapped. “Don’t ask me that,” Kris growled.

“Alright, I won’t,” Chanyeol murmured, aiming for soothing. Slowly, the air around them warmed again, and Chanyeol licked at his lips, willing his racing heart to slow back down. “Lord Jung, is he - is he in the manor? Is he still here?”

“I believe that he _is_ the manor,” Kris said. “Who else would hold me back, keep me from moving on? He imprisons me even now.” He shook his head. “I have digressed rather badly, I apologize. My point is that the fault is not your own, Chanyeol. It is not you who is sick, who is broken and wrong.” He looked up, fixing Chanyeol with his black gaze. “The world would like to make you blame yourself, but you carry no blame. As your ex-lover deserves someone who will make him happy in _his_ way, so do you deserve someone who will make you happy in yours.”

His ears heating, Chanyeol dropped his gaze. “No one will ever want to be with someone who won’t have sex with them,” he muttered. “Why would they?”

His hair ruffled. Chanyeol looked up, and found that Kris was reaching up, brushing his fingers through the strands. Chanyeol couldn’t feel his touch, but he could feel his hair moving, and that was almost good enough. He all but purred, leaning into it.

A chill trailed down his cheekbone, traced out his jaw. “I have already seen that you love with your whole being,” Kris whispered, as his hand slid down Chanyeol’s neck, making him shiver. “Without reserve, without regard for yourself. Anyone would be lucky to have you at their side.”

“I wish it could be you,” Chanyeol blurted out. He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even really known it was true, but as soon as he did, he realized it was.

Somewhere along the line, without even realizing it, he’d fallen in love with a ghost.

Kris smiled at him, brilliant and sad. “I do too,” he whispered. “Believe me, I do too.”

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

By Tuesday, Chanyeol knew that the house suspected that something was up.

He was awoken far too early by a horrible nightmare about drowning, and before ten AM he had dodged three more attempts on his life, one of which nearly got him - the bathroom mirror shattering in his face. He’d only just avoided getting sliced across the jugular because he thought he’d seen Kris standing behind him, and had turned to look just in time.

All the food in his pantry had _mysteriously_ rotted overnight, so Chanyeol spent the morning clearing it out, and then went down to the town to pick up more. Being outside the house helped him to relax, and he managed to catch a couple extra hours of sleep in his car while parked, which helped. He stocked up on non-perishables, choosing things that came in boxes and plastic bags rather than cans, since he could _just_ see the house turning a can opener against him.

As he was driving back, he again had the thought that he could just… Not. Just go to a hotel for the next month and wait it out, safe and sound.

But no. That wasn’t an option anymore, not really. Half because he was in love with Kris and determined to set his spirit free, to not fail him, but the other half was sheer, stubborn _spite_. Asshole Jung and his monster mansion were _not_ going to defeat him.

Chanyeol got back to the house just around two-thirty, giving him approximately half an hour before Kim Minseok’s scene would begin. He put away his groceries quickly, then went and got his craft knife, his axe, and the very large raw steak he had just purchased, and went to his sitting room to wait.

This one made him jittery, way more jittery than most. He was going to have to face down the tiger, he knew. And if his math was correct, he was going to have to keep it busy - keep it from _killing_ him - for at least five full minutes. When you were talking about fighting a _goddamn tiger_ , five minutes was a really, really long time.

He shifted his weight, glanced at the clock. It had been less than a week since he was released from the hospital, and though his pain was considerably lessened now, he was still stiff, not as fast or as strong as he normally would be.

It was going to be a very dangerous few minutes, of that he was certain.

Sure enough, just around five minutes of three, Chanyeol heard a roar. Taking a deep breath, he went ahead and cut his hand right away - he didn’t know if he’d get the time to do it, later - and then dropped the craft knife and picked up the axe. His heart was pounding so loudly, it nearly drowned out the pounding of footsteps that approached.

The ghost burst into the room, pushing on a door that was, to Chanyeol’s eyes, already open. Chanyeol put his hand out in front of him. “Kim Minseok!”

Minseok froze for only a second, wide-eyed. Before he could think the better of it, Chanyeol reached forward and touched him with his bloody hand. Minseok became real under his fingers, and so did the tiger that skid to a halt in the doorway, looking somewhat bemused at the sudden appearance of a man with an axe.

“Run,” Chanyeol ordered. “Don’t go near the pond.”

He saw the confusion in Minseok’s eyes, then, to his surprise, realization. But of course - if Minseok had saved ghosts himself, he would understand what Chanyeol’s sudden appearance in front of him meant. 

Sidling around Chanyeol, Minseok slid out the back door and onto the patio. Chanyeol saw him head to the right rather than straight ahead, keeping a good distance from the pond.

The tiger took a step forward, eyeing Chanyeol with ears pushed back. Keeping the axe ready in his right hand, Chanyeol reached over to the table and picked up the plate with the steak on it with his left.

“Hungry?” he asked. “Here, kitty.” He tossed the plate forward carefully, and it landed a meter or so in front of the tiger with an obnoxious _clang_. The tiger recoiled, startled, then leaned forward and sniffed.

While it was distracted, Chanyeol quickly slipped out the back door, and closed it behind him. He went in the same direction he’d seen Minseok go, crossing in front of the great room windows to the other side of the patio, looking around.

“Minseok?” he called, trying not to be too loud.

“Here,” a soft voice replied. Chanyeol looked around, then up, and found catlike eyes peering down at him from the roof of the new addition. “Is it - shit, _behind you!_ ”

Chanyeol turned just in time to see the tiger burst out from the door of the great room. Acting completely on instinct, Chanyeol leaped right over the patio railing, desperate to put something between the animal and him.

It was, as it turned out, a phenomenally stupid thing to do. The patio was not raised very far from the ground, but it was raised enough, and Chanyeol had momentarily forgotten that he was injured. His right leg collapsed when he hit the ground, and he went down, narrowly avoiding landing right on the axe in his hands.

Unable to stop his yell of pain, Chanyeol rolled onto his back and threw his hands up over himself, axe and all, as if that was somehow going to help if the tiger leapt onto him. Fortunately for him, the tiger did not leap onto him.

Unfortunately, the tiger leapt _straight up onto the roof_.

Minseok screamed. Ignoring his pain, Chanyeol scrambled to his feet, looking wildly around. There was a fallen branch tangled in the detritus that had blown up against the side of the patio; Chanyeol seized it and flung it upwards. It caught the tiger a glancing blow across the flank, just enough to make it hesitate and look around.

“Minseok, catch!” Chanyeol yelled, and heaved the axe up onto the roof. As he did, he felt a sharp pain in his side and heard a ripping noise, and immediately gasped, pressing his hand to his stitches. Blood was soaking into his shirt.

He hadn’t quite gotten the axe high enough for Minseok to actually catch it, but it was close enough for Minseok to scoop it up, brandishing it at the tiger. Gritting his teeth and clutching his side, Chanyeol went looking for something else he could throw. The tiger was distractible, and that was pretty much their only advantage right now.

Chanyeol found a rock, just as the tiger leapt. Somehow, miraculously, Minseok managed to stop it by catching the outstretched claws with the handle of the axe and twisting. The axe was pulled from his hand, the tiger went past him, and Minseok bolted across the roof. He made a rather incredible flying leap and hauled himself up over the railing of the second-floor balcony.

Quickly reviewing his mental map of the house, Chanyeol swore. That particular balcony door was rusted locked; he hadn’t had the chance to replace the mechanism yet. As the tiger turned and Minseok frantically tried to get the door open, Chanyeol wound up and threw the rock.

It bounced directly off the tiger’s head, which definitely got its attention. Chanyeol was shaking now, his damaged muscles spasming so hard he could barely remain standing, and as the tiger turned towards him and crouched, preparing to pounce, Chanyeol realized he didn’t have enough energy left in him to run.

The tiger leaped, descending upon Chanyeol with all of its claws outstretched. Chanyeol flinched away, cowering behind his arms, the only thing he could do.

The grandfather clock chimed, and the impact never came.

“Oh holy _fuck,_ ” Minseok breathed, and Chanyeol opened his eyes in time to see the other man sink to his knees in exhaustion. The tiger was completely gone, nowhere to be seen. “That was _fucking close_.”

“You’re telling me,” Chanyeol said weakly. His legs didn’t want to hold him up anymore, so he didn’t bother, and dropped down to the grass.

“You - hey, shit, are you okay?” Minseok hauled himself up and came back over the railing onto the roof. He went to the corner where the new addition met the original part of the house and dropped himself carefully onto the patio, hanging from the roof for a moment before he let go.

He dropped to his knees at Chanyeol’s side, and Chanyeol noticed for the first time that his arm was scratched up. The tiger’s claws must have gotten him after all. “Did this happen just now? I didn’t see it hit you,” Minseok said, carefully peeling Chanyeol’s shirt up so he could survey the damage.

“No,” Chanyeol told him wearily, “this was from before. I just tore a stitch. It’ll be fine.”

Minseok pursed his lips. “You need to clean this. Let’s get you inside.”

Between the two of them, they managed to get Chanyeol upright and into the house. Chanyeol felt Minseok hesitate when he saw the kitchen - it would have looked completely different, when he was living here - but he gamely kept moving, without comment. Once Chanyeol was seated and shirtless, Minseok found some paper towels and began carefully cleaning away the blood.

“Hi,” Chanyeol said, once he had his breath back. “I’m Chanyeol.”

Minseok flashed him a rueful smile. “Hi, Chanyeol,” he muttered. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Chanyeol winced. “I’m sorry.”

Heaving a sigh, Minseok shook his head. “I’m not very surprised, honestly,” he said. “Considering it’s my birthday. Or… it was.”

“So it’s true, then,” Chanyeol asked. “The birthday thing.”

“Yeah. The house starts to terrorize any young man who’s past about 25 years old, though it kind of seems to vary exactly when and how much. It toys with you, tortures you, then actively tries to kill you.” He sighed again. “No one has managed to make it past their 27th birthday, as far as I can tell. I knew that, but I’m a stubborn idiot.” Minseok eyed him. “How long have you got?”

“Just a little under a month. Twenty-nine days.” He hadn’t really intended to keep a count of it, but when it was literally how long he had to live, he kind of couldn’t help it. “I figure I’m going to stick around for another two weeks or so. If I haven’t saved all of the ghosts by then, I’ll get myself out.”

Pressing a compress over Chanyeol’s wound, Minseok gave him a questioning look. “All the ghosts? How many have you gotten so far?”

“You’re the eighth.”

“Eight! Shit, my friend, you’re doing way better than me.” Minseok shook his head. “I only managed three.”

Three. Three? “Zhang Yixing mentioned you,” Chanyeol said, “and so did Kim Junmyeon. Who was the other?”

“Byun Baekhyun.”

“Byun Baekhyun?” Chanyeol tried to sit forward, winced, and collapsed back into the chair. “Is he the ghost in the great room? The other one the tiger got?”

“Yeah, he died in 1902. I take it he’s one of the ones you haven’t gotten yet?”

“Him and Kim Jongdae. I know Jongdae’s name, but I haven’t seen him yet. I have no idea when he appears.”

Minseok blinked at him. “The third.”

Chanyeol froze. “What?”

“The third of the month. Him and Lu Han are the only ones who repeat monthly, instead of weekly or daily. Or, at least, they used to be the only ones.” He cocked his head. “You didn’t realize? Lu Han appears on the nineteenth, and Kim Jongdae on the third. I’d only just figured that out myself, hadn’t really figured out how to stop them yet.”

The third. What had Chanyeol been doing on the third? “This month I was away on the third,” he realized. It was when he’d been living out of a hotel room, too fucking frightened to come back. “And the third of the prior month was the day I moved into the house. It had been empty for ten years, there probably wasn’t enough energy for Jongdae’s scene to manifest.” It made sense. The two times he’d seen Lu Han were a month apart, weren’t they? “Shit, that’s probably why I only saw Zitao once, too. I bet he was also monthly.”

“So you only have who left? Baekhyun, Jongdae, and…?”

“Kris.”

Minseok made a face. “Right, obviously. I should have known.” He shook his head. “Those are going to be three tough scenes to break, are you sure you’re up for doing that? This injury probably isn’t going to be healed for a month or two, minimum.”

“Hah. Yeah, I’m up for it. I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“Yes. Yes you do.” Minseok fixed him with a glare. “You can leave, right now, and not come back. You know you can.”

Chanyeol met his eyes steadily. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

Narrowing his eyes, Minseok said, “Maybe I should use my last two hours on Earth to get the cops to lock you up for exactly one month.”

“Hah. You can try.” Chanyeol shook his head. “I’ve made up my mind, Minseok. If you want to help me, tell me everything you know about Kim Jongdae’s scene.” He heaved a breath. “If what you’re telling me is true, then any way you look at it, I’m only going to get one shot at saving him.”

So as he finished wrapping Chanyeol’s wound, Minseok did exactly that, explaining what he had seen. “It starts late, just after five PM,” he said. “Clock tolls for Jongdae at quarter after five. The first time caught me totally off-guard, and I didn’t even realize there was a ghost in the flames until I heard screaming.”

Chanyeol winced. 

“The second time, I tried waiting in the room, figuring I would catch him as he came in. Thing is, by the time Jongdae walks in, he’s already gone. I called his name, over and over, but it was like the house had control of his mind. He barely responded to me.”

“Like Jongin,” Chanyeol said to himself.

“I couldn’t get him to snap out of it in time. The fire goes up almost as soon as he walks in the door; he doesn’t realize he’s walking into the flames until it’s way too late. If you’re going to stop him, you have to stop him _before_ he enters that room, Chanyeol.” Minseok stopped what he was doing and held Chanyeol’s gaze. “And listen, I would _not_ risk making his scene real with blood, okay? That fire is scary, but harmless, so long as it is only on Jongdae’s side of the veil. If you make it real, it might take the whole house out.”

Shit, that was a really, really good point. “So I have to save him without touching him,” Chanyeol said. “Got it. Do you know which direction he comes from?”

“The hall from the main part of the house. I don’t know which set of stairs he takes up to the second floor, but he is definitely already on the second floor when he approaches, and he’s not coming from the far end of the wing so I don’t think he went up the spiral stairs in the library.”

Chanyeol nodded, picturing that part of the house in his head. “I’ll wait for him at the entrance to the wing. No matter which stairs he goes up, he has to go past that way.”

Nodding in return, Minseok said, “It still won’t give you much time, but it’s the only way you’ll be sure to catch him. Sorry, my friend, I wish I could tell you more.” Chanyeol shrugged. “When will he appear next?”

Pulling up a calendar on his phone, Chanyeol checked. “Sunday,” he said. And then, he realized, “Ugh, wait, that means his scene is going to overlap with Baekhyun’s. Maybe I’ll wait until the Sunday after that to save Baekhyun, and then get Kris. That still gets this over with a full two weeks before my birthday.”

“Assuming you can save Jongdae in your first shot,” Minseok pointed out dryly. “And that the house doesn’t kill you in the meantime.”

“I’m going to go ahead and be optimistic about that.”

“I hope you’re right,” Minseok said, as he patted the finished wound dressing. “It would be a hell of a thing to get wrong.”

And didn’t Chanyeol know it. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“Mmm, not that I can think of. You know when and where Baekhyun’s and Kris’s scenes takes place, I assume?” Chanyeol nodded. “How are you gonna stop that tiger?”

Chanyeol shrugged. “Same way I did today, I guess, and that I did with Lu Han. Just keep distracting and confusing it. I know the path it takes, maybe I can set up some kind of a trap?”

A snort. “I wouldn’t. The house would probably turn it against you.”

“Okay, point.”

They kept discussing it for the rest of the hour, going over everything Minseok knew. The vast majority of it, Chanyeol had already figured out himself, but he kept hoping there would be something else, something that would show him how to win this thing easily.

There wasn’t. He was going to have to fight, no matter what. But he had everything that he needed now, all of the clues. The end was in sight.

Eventually, the hour grew late. The light coming in through the kitchen windows was pinkish gold, and threw long shadows. Chanyeol knew it was coming, but he still winced when Minseok trailed off mid-sentence, turning his head and staring at something Chanyeol couldn’t see.

“Wow,” he muttered. “That’s… not really what I expected that to look like.”

And then his eyes widened. He turned back to Chanyeol, gripping his arm.

“I just remembered, oh my God,” he said quickly. “It’s only once, you only have one shot each year.”

Chanyeol blinked, startled. “What?”

“To break the curse!” Minseok hissed. “I didn’t figure it out until I was already a ghost, it only just came back to me. The scene that plays every night in the tower, _that’s not the whole scene._ You can only witness all of it on the anniversary of his death. If you don’t break the curse then, _you never will._ ”

Chanyeol tried to put his hand over Minseok’s, but Minseok was already fading, and his hand touched chilly nothing. “What? Minseok, I don’t understand!”

“You said Yixing and Lu Han mentioned me, they remembered me?” Minseok asked. Chanyeol nodded. “Then I guess I’ll remember you, if you fail.” He gave Chanyeol a look. “Don’t fail, Chanyeol.”

He disappeared, leaving Chanyeol wide-eyed.

“The scene that plays out every night in the tower,” he repeated out loud. “Kris’s scene. That’s not the whole thing? There’s more?” He got up, started pacing the kitchen. “Is _that_ why I can’t break him out? He can only be saved on the anniversary of his death.”

Wait.

_Wait_.

_Shit_.

Chanyeol pulled out his calendar again. Kris’s death had taken place on his birthday, November 6th.

“I don’t have a month left,” Chanyeol breathed, horrified. “I have a _week_.”

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

It took Chanyeol quite a while to absorb that. A month had been bad enough, but a week? It meant he’d have only one shot at Jongdae, one shot at Baekhyun, and he’d have to save them in the same night, one right after the other. Jongdae wouldn’t even have time to fade before he went to save Baekhyun.

And he’d only get one shot at saving Kris. If he couldn’t manage it, it was over. All he would be able to do would be to run away, knowing that he’d been so close and he failed. It killed Chanyeol to even contemplate running, _failing_ , after all that he’d been through, but if he couldn’t stop Kris’s scene on the sixth, there would be nothing left for him in this house except certain death as his own birthday approached.

The sun was all the way down and the stars were starting to appear when Chanyeol finally calmed down enough to get off his ass and head outside, intending to grab his axe.

To his surprise, though, when he reached for the door out to the patio, he found that his hand wouldn’t make contact.

Blinking, he tried again. His hand literally would not move forward enough to touch the door. There was nothing stopping him, nothing he could feel or see, but he could not reach the door.

He tried his other hand, and then his foot. He wound up and kicked, but his foot rebounded long before it connected with wood, as if there was a force field.

With panic rising in his throat, Chanyeol went to the great room and tried that door, with the same result. He ran to the doors in his sitting room, on the sides of the house, and all three doors in the front, and even tried the second-floor balcony doors and some windows he knew would open.

Nothing.

He was trapped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/unnie_bee), [askfm](https://ask.fm/unnie_bee), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/unnie_bee)!


	9. Chapter 9

 

_Thursday, October 31, 2019_

 

_Happy Halloween! :D_

The text made Chanyeol laugh bitterly. He was literally living a horror movie; Halloween was the last thing he needed to deal with.

Not that he was going to get the chance to. He’d already tried to contact Amber, but it was no use. He could receive texts and calls, but he couldn’t send anything out; the texts wouldn’t send and calls wouldn’t connect. He hadn’t been able to respond to her, or to contact anyone in the outside world, since Tuesday.

A few minutes later, when he didn’t respond, another text came in. _Dude, are you angry at me for the Minho thing?_

Chanyeol sighed. He knew it looked like he was freezing Amber out, and that bothered him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. So long as she didn’t get worried and try to come see him, it didn’t matter, anyway.

Either he would be able to answer her once the curse was broken, or he would be dead.

He had six days left, counting today, and about three and a half before he’d have to save both Baekhyun and Jongdae in a single evening. He’d already mapped out his battle plan for November 3rd, trying to keep it as simple and safe as he could manage, considering.

The west wing staircase was a very important part of his plan, so Chanyeol was planning to spend the day today clearing out the rubble from the collapse. He’d been avoiding stairs as much as he could, especially since the house kept threatening to make the floor collapse out from under him again, but he really needed that staircase free of debris before he tried to use it to get away from a tiger.

It was a messy business, which is why Chanyeol had put it off so long in the first place. Dust and sawdust filled the air, and all of the wood debris was splintery and sharp. Chanyeol did most of the cleaning with a long-handled broom, staying on the ground floor as much as he could manage, just in case.

Eventually, he did have to go up to the second floor landing and start clearing away the rubble that had accumulated there. It was hard work, but he was moving slow, both so that he would be ready if the house tried anything, and also so that he didn’t tear his side open again.

He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against the wall with his hands on his knees. In the silence, something caught his attention, an out-of-place sound. He cocked his head, listening.

Whatever it was, it was nearly too quiet to hear. Chanyeol pushed off the wall and walked down the hall a little bit, then back, trying to figure out the source of the sound.

It was coming from upstairs. The third floor, which he still hadn’t explored.

Jogging back down the stairs, Chanyeol grabbed his ladder and brought it up. He set up his ladder on the second floor landing and bypassed the collapsed section of stairs entirely, hauling himself up onto the third floor landing.

As it turned out, the third floor was a single, large, open room that stretched across the front half of the main part of the house. There was a fireplace - if he had to guess, he’d suppose it probably shared a chimney with the library on the first floor - which seemed to indicate that it had been built to be used, but it was pretty clear it had been some time since this room had seen any real use. It was storage, no more than an attic, filled with boxes, knicknacks, and unused furniture.

The sound was louder, now, and Chanyeol stopped moving and listened hard. It sounded like _crying?_ But it wasn’t Kris, he was pretty sure. By now, he knew what Kris sounded like when he cried, and this wasn’t the right tone for that.

He searched the whole room, looking under piles and behind furniture, but there was no one here, living or dead. “Hello?” he called. “Is there anyone here?”

The sound was loudest when he was in the center of the room, in front of the only window, a large but very dirty picture window with Chinese-style fretwork panes. The angled ceiling of the space was gabled here, accommodating the curved peak of the roof, another Asian-style touch on an otherwise European structure.

Chanyeol squinted up at the ceiling. The gable didn’t just stick out from the roof at a right angle, he knew. It rose up quite a ways above the rest of the roofline, with one of the manor’s most striking architectural features, a huge, circular window, right at the top.

The round window wasn’t here, which meant there had to be another floor.

So Chanyeol started looking. He cleared a space, and climbed up onto a nearby chair to get a closer look at the ceiling. Mostly it just looked like any attic ceiling, exposed crossbeams and old boards laid atop them, but over by the far wall he found something - brackets on the wall and the ceiling that looked a whole lot like the ones that held the cast-iron spiral staircases elsewhere in the house, and cuts in the boards in the shape of a square.

He went back to the staircase, reached down, and grabbed his ladder, hauling it up to the third floor. The action strained his injured side, but he just winced his way through the pain and brought the ladder over to the trapdoor. It took a minute to figure out how it worked, which side to open it from, but he managed it.

Memories of getting trapped in the tallest room of the tower flitted through his mind, and Chanyeol made sure to grab a loose board to take up with him. He pushed the trapdoor open and stuck his head in the room.

It looked like it had once been a quaint little sitting room, with a pretty, antique daybed, a bookshelf, and a vanity. The sunlight that streamed in was dimmed through the years of dust and dirt on the huge, round window, which from this side Chanyeol could see was as tall as a person and etched with beautiful art of a Chinese-style dragon.

He could still hear the crying, very clearly now, but at first, he couldn’t see the source. It wasn’t until his eyes adjusted that he realized there was a translucent shape curled up in the corner next to the window, barely visible in the streaky light.

“Hey,” Chanyeol said. “Can you hear me?”

Probably not. Chanyeol pulled himself all the way up into the room and carefully blocked the trapdoor open with the board. It wouldn’t really stop the house if it was determined to lock him in, but then, nothing would.

He approached carefully, but the ghost showed no signs of movement. It definitely wasn’t Kris, it wasn’t nearly large enough. So who was it?

Kneeling close, Chanyeol ducked his head down and looked into the ghost’s face. The ghost was so translucent that it took him a moment to make sense of its features, but when he did, he gasped.

“Jessica,” he said. “Jessica Jung?”

There was no answer, but Chanyeol was sure it was her. Who else could it be? She was dressed in a billowing Western dress and had hair long past her shoulders; even if Chanyeol hadn’t recognized her features, there was no woman more likely to be a ghost in this house.

He tried to touch her, but she was so faded that she barely chilled his hand, let alone was actually touchable. Moving to the side, Chanyeol put himself in the path of the sunlight, casting her into shadow and making her easier to see. 

She looked… Gaunt. Starved. Withered, almost. Was that just a trick of her translucency?

No, it wasn’t. Her hands were curled around her knees, and Chanyeol could see that her knuckles were too knobbly, her fingers too thin for the wedding ring still on her hand. She was literally wasting away. Kyungsoo had said that she died of grief… was this her death scene? Had she starved herself to death?

Chanyeol tried again to get her attention. He called her name, he waved his hands in front of her face, he even cut his finger and tried to make her real. Nothing. No response, no movement, nothing but this sad, faded ghost, sobbing quietly in the furthest corner of the house.

Chanyeol stayed with her for a while, thinking that something would eventually happen, or at least that she would fade away. To his confusion, though, she remained right where she was, unmoving, for literally hours.

When the sun went down and she was still there, Chanyeol decided to leave her be, and went back down the stairs to ponder this development.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Jessica never moved, as it turned out.

Chanyeol went back up to the fourth-floor sitting room several times over the course of the next few days, and she was always there. Always curled in the corner, faded, crying.

He didn’t know if she had been there the entire time, or if she only appeared recently, maybe when the house had locked him in. It bothered him, because what if he had to save her as well, in order to break the curse? But he’d tried everything he could think of, and nothing he had done had even made her lift her head.

Besides, he had enough to worry about.

Sleeping more than two hours at a time had become Chanyeol’s ultimate goal in life, more important to him even than staying alive. He was pretty sure he was starting to sleep right through attempts by the house to frighten him, just out of sheer exhaustion.

He’d moved his mattress to the sunroom that was off of the kitchen, because as part of the new addition it definitely seemed to see less supernatural activity than most of the house, but that didn’t stop the house from throwing shit at the doors, turning on all the taps in the kitchen, or making the stove start to smoke. Chanyeol had already turned off electricity, gas and water to any part of the house he wasn’t actively using, unwilling to give the manor any more ammunition than it already had.

Time seemed to be simultaneously speeding along and crawling, and Chanyeol was having some trouble keeping track of what day it was, but before he knew it, Sunday afternoon was upon him. Having made all the preparations he could think of and gotten as much sleep as he dared, Chanyeol planted himself at the second floor entrance to the west wing hallway, and waited.

And _waited_.

The longer he waited, the more nervous he became. Was Minseok wrong about when and where Jongdae would appear? Did Jongdae’s scene require more energy, more blood, than Chanyeol had given? Or had Chanyeol somehow missed him entirely?

His watch ticked past five o’clock, and Chanyeol took a few nervous steps forward, looking over the railing into the foyer. There wasn’t anything there, so he quickly retraced his steps and glanced down the west-wing stairs. Nothing there, either.

By sheer chance, as he was returning to his post, Chanyeol noticed the door to the far guest suite opening. A shimmery figure faded into view, walking into the room.

“Shit!” Chanyeol yelped. “Kim Jongdae!” He sprinted down the hall.

He wasn’t fast enough. The fire was already roaring, leaping out of the damaged fireplace and consuming floorboards that no longer existed, and Jongdae kept walking, entranced. Chanyeol didn’t have time to ponder it, didn’t have time to weigh his options.

Besides, there _was_ no other option. If he failed to save Jongdae, he was a dead man anyway.

Chanyeol yanked his knife out of his pocket and slashed himself haphazardly across the top of his forearm. Dropping the knife, he smeared his hand through the blood, leapt forward, and swiped his hand across the back of Jongdae’s head, yelling the man’s name.

He made contact, smacking Jongdae square in the head. Jongdae immediately flinched and cried out in alarm, but Chanyeol couldn’t even spare a second to apologize because the fire was _real_ now, so hot he could feel his skin sizzling and he wasn’t even touching it yet. He grabbed Jongdae’s collar and _hauled_.

It wasn’t a graceful retreat. They went sprawling backwards, Jongdae on top of Chanyeol, and internally Chanyeol cursed. The fire had already consumed half the room - including, he realized too late, the legs of Jongdae’s trousers.

Yelling, Chanyeol flipped them over and scrambled to his feet. He’d known, despite what Minseok had said, that there was a possibility he’d have to make the fire real, so he’d prepared for it. To his right, a towel he’d pre-soaked was laying on a chair; Chanyeol grabbed it and threw it over Jongdae’s legs, suffocating the flames.

Terrified, confused dark eyes stared up at him in shock. “Go to the study,” Chanyeol ordered, “and barricade yourself in. Don’t come out until I say it’s okay. Go, run!”

Jongdae hesitated, then nodded, scrambling to his feet and out the door. Chanyeol threw the towel on the closest part of the flames and reached for the other thing he’d prepared - a line of fire extinguishers, every one that he had purchased for the house. Chanyeol had never faced down an actual fire with an extinguisher before, but thankfully his previous job had mandatory training, so he at least knew the theory. He yanked out the pin and squeezed.

It took a long time, and three and a half extinguishers, to finally put the fire out. Part of the problem was that the flames were burning fuel that wasn’t even there anymore, floating supernaturally over the parts of the floor that had been burnt away nearly a century ago, and so the foam from the extinguisher just fell right through the flames and landed in the room below. The smoke was filling the room, so Chanyeol ended up backing out to the doorway and dropping to his knees, trying to stay below the worst of it.

Eventually, he got it all. Gasping, Chanyeol shut the extinguisher off, and waited for a moment, just to make certain no stray tongues of flame were going to spring back to life. He checked his watch.

He’d been fighting the fire for over fifteen minutes. Baekhyun would be appearing at any moment, if he hadn’t already.

Groaning, Chanyeol crawled to the end of the hallway, not standing until he reached the stairs. Out here, the smoke was still detectable by smell, but Chanyeol didn’t feel like his lungs were burning any more, so it was probably dispersed enough to be safe. He leaned against the wall and took stock of himself.

His breathing was winded and rasping from the smoke, in his rush he’d cut himself too deeply with the knife and was bleeding pretty badly, and he’d fucking torn his side open again, flecks of blood soaking into his shirt. All he wanted to was to lay down right there and sleep for a week, but he didn’t have the time. Jongdae was safe now - he hoped, anyway - but Baekhyun needed him.

Pushing up from the wall, Chanyeol took a deep breath, and waited until the room stopped spinning. When things were stable again, he smeared fresh blood on his left hand, grabbed the large crowbar he’d tucked away up here in his right, and pressed his back into the corner, hiding himself from the staircase.

And again, he waited.

A bare minute later, he heard a gasp, and running footsteps. He braced himself, leaning out just enough that he could see the very top stair, right before the landing.

Baekhyun’s ghost appeared. “Byun Baekhyun!” Chanyeol hissed, throwing his bloody hand out at the same time. He grabbed a very surprised Baekhyun by the arm, yanked him behind himself, took a step forward, and _swung_.

The crowbar cracked the tiger right across the nose. It yowled, recoiling, and Chanyeol took off, yanking Baekhyun behind him.

Chanyeol’s plan had been to duck into the closest bedroom and barricade the door. He’d even moved the bed earlier, leaving just enough space for the door to open, with the idea that he would shove the bed the last meter or so as soon as they were inside.

Unfortunately, to his shock, he couldn’t get a hand on the doorknob. Just like with the exterior doors, the house was holding it closed.

And the tiger was recovering fast.

Chanyeol didn’t even try the other bedrooms - if one was blocked, they probably all were. Instead, he pulled Baekhyun around the balcony to the top of the grand staircase, and they raced down.

Wracking his brain, Chanyeol tried to think which rooms on the first floor weren’t a trap. With all of the exterior doors sealed, there wasn’t a lot of options - basically the great room, the kitchen, and the dining room were the only spaces with multiple exits. He opted for the kitchen.

Unfortunately for them, the tiger did not need to use stairs, and Baekhyun screamed as it jumped right from the second floor down to the first, completely erasing any lead they had gained. They ran, but it wasn’t enough - the tiger cornered them in the great room, before they could even get to the kitchen.

Instinctively, Chanyeol shoved Baekhyun behind himself and planted his feet. The full-on sprinting right after inhaling a load of smoke had really taken it out of him, and Chanyeol wasn’t sure he had a whole lot left, but his adrenaline was singing and his entire being was focused on _I will not die,_ and nothing else.

The tiger leapt. Chanyeol jammed the crowbar crosswise between its jaws and dropped, intending to roll back and throw the tiger over his head with both feet in its stomach.

It didn’t work like that. Chanyeol was too weak, the tiger to heavy, too fast. Claws ripped into his shoulders, and Chanyeol went down, unable to get his legs up in time to keep from being flattened.

_Blam. Blam._

Suddenly, the tiger’s full weight collapsed onto him, claws retracting from his skin. Chanyeol gasped, the breath knocked out of him. He pushed, but he was trapped, too hurt and too weak and at too bad of an angle, the full weight of the beast pressing all the air out of his lungs.

Then, the tiger rolled off him. Was rolled off him. Baekhyun’s face peered down at his own, wide-eyed. “Are you alive?” he demanded.

Chanyeol tried to answer, and ended up coughing instead.

Baekhyun helped him to sit up, plopping down next to him and half-holding him upright. Across the room, Chanyeol saw Kim Jongdae, in the act of lowering a shotgun to his side.

“That was close,” Chanyeol gasped, as soon as he had his breath. “Thank you.”

“Barricade yourself in the study, he says,” Jongdae muttered, dropping to his knees in front of them. “Don’t come out until I say so, he says. Real smart, there.”

Chanyeol tried to laugh, coughed again, and had to hold up his hands when both Jongdae and Baekhyun reached for him, alarmed. “I’m okay,” he said. “The smoke. But I’m okay.” He winced. “I didn’t know there was a gun in the house?”

“Won’t do a lot of good,” Jongdae said. “The tiger will be back. It always comes back.”

What? _Whoa._ “That’s not the first time you’ve shot that tiger, is it?” Chanyeol asked.

“Stop talking,” Baekhyun chided, “you’re dying.”

Chanyeol blinked, offended. “I am not.”

“ _You’re sitting in a pool of your own blood,_ ” Baekhyun snapped, and… Oh. Right.

“There’s a medical kit in the kitchen,” Chanyeol said meekly. “First cabinet on the right, on the top.”

“I’ll get it,” Jongdae said, and ducked out of the room.

Chanyeol shifted, but Baekhyun pushed him back down with a ginger touch on his chest. He was gentle, but the touch pulled at sliced-open skin and Chanyeol was suddenly excruciatingly aware of how much pain he was in. “Oh, _fuck,_ ” he whimpered.

“Stay put, hero,” Baekhyun said. “Let’s get you patched up, and _then_ I will ask you why there are two strange men in my house, saving me from the tiger that no one else can see.”

“It isn’t your house anymore,” Jongdae said as he returned, medical kit in hand. “You’re dead, Byun Baekhyun.” Baekhyun gaped, and Jongdae dropped in front of Chanyeol, opening the kit on his lap. “And I think I am too. Aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Chanyeol said, after a beat of silence. “I’m sorry.”

Jongdae dropped his gaze to the kit. “I knew it,” he muttered. “The gun safe looked like it hadn’t been touched in years, and that is _definitely_ not my uncle’s kitchen. I knew the house would get me someday.” He eyed Chanyeol. “Didn’t know someone dead could be made not-dead, though. I suppose that’s a plus.”

As Jongdae pulled out antiseptic cream and bandages, Baekhyun spluttered. “I’m not _dead!_ ” he protested. “I’m right here!”

“You’re _dead,_ Baekhyun. I’ve seen your ghost. Several times, actually.” Handing the supplies to Baekhyun, Jongdae pulled out the safety scissors from the kit. “I don’t think you should be raising your arms,” he said, “so I’m going to have to cut that shirt off you.”

Chanyeol nodded. “You have medical training,” he observed.

“I fought in the war,” Jongdae muttered. “Managed to keep myself alive mostly by volunteering for the medics.”

The war? Which war? Jongdae had died in 1949, right? Chanyeol did the math.

“World War 2?” he asked. “But Korea was under Japanese rule. You would have only been sixteen when…” Jongdae gave him a look, and Chanyeol trailed off. “Shit,” he breathed.

“Hold on, wait, please shut up for a second,” Baekhyun pleaded, as Jongdae sliced into Chanyeol’s shirt. “Who are you? Why do you both know my name? _What is going on?_ ”

So while Jongdae cleaned and wrapped his wounds, Chanyeol introduced himself, and explained everything - about the hauntings, about who is targeted, about how they died and how they became ghosts and how he’d set them free.

He had the story down pat by now, but that didn’t make it easier to see tears gathering in Baekhyun’s eyes, or the muscle in Jongdae’s jaw tighten. “And you’re both going to fade,” he concluded, “as soon as the sun goes down. Which should be any minute, actually.”

Baekhyun’s expression compressed. “So soon? I’m not ready to go yet,” he said. “Do you think I could say goodby to Yifan, at least? Is he still here?”

Chanyeol and Jongdae looked at each other, then at Baekhyun. “Who’s Yifan?”

“The ghost! You said you’d both seen ghosts too, right? Yifan comes and talks to me sometimes. He’s a little odd, but nice.” Taking in their expressions, Baekhyun raised his eyebrows. “Tall fellow, enjoys fashionable menswear, horrifying wound across his neck?”

Oh! “You mean Kris!” Chanyeol said.

“Well, yes,” Baekhyun replied. “But that’s not _actually_ his name, of course.”

Suddenly, Chanyeol was gripping Baekhyun’s wrist. He didn’t even remember moving. “ _What._ ”

“He was native-born Chinese,” Baekhyun said, giving Chanyeol a strange look. “You didn’t think he was _born_ with the name Kris, did you? He adopted it when he was living overseas.”

Chanyeol sat back, stunned by this. Of course. He was a fucking _idiot_. “That’s why he doesn’t answer me when I call his name,” he muttered. “It’s the wrong goddamn name.”

“Um. Fellas?”

Chanyeol looked up, and found Jongdae staring slightly to the left.

“What - oh.” Baekhyun’s eyes fixed on the same spot.

Reaching out, Chanyeol took both of their hands. “I guess it’s time for you guys to go?”

“It’s so… Bright,” Jongdae said. “Is this what everyone sees, when they die?” He glanced back at Chanyeol. “You going to be okay on your own?” he asked softly.

Chanyeol forced up his best smile. “Yeah,” he said, far more confidently than he felt. “I’ll be fine. You two go rest now, okay?”

Jongdae nodded, and faded away.

“Shit,” Baekhyun breathed. “Okay. I’m coming.”

He squeezed Chanyeol’s fingers, closed his eyes, and faded as well, leaving Chanyeol holding nothing.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

Over the course of the next few days, it was all Chanyeol could do just to stay alive and sane.

His body was a wreck, fighting to heal, and tending to one shoulder was difficult when he couldn’t easily move the other. He was pretty sure the prescriptions he already had for painkillers and antibiotics were the only thing that was keeping him from keeling over, at this point.

Sleep was nigh impossible to come by. Nearly every time he closed his eyes, the house brought some kind of hell down on him, including the tiger, _twice_. Chanyeol was in an active war zone, and the only thing that kept him going was his deadline.

He only had to survive until sunrise on Wednesday. By then, it would all be over, one way or another.

Chanyeol really wished he could see Kris again, talk to him, get even just a little reassurance that he was on the right track and this would all be worth it. But Kris, though he was appearing a lot more often, was completely senseless to anything, including Chanyeol’s blood or Chanyeol calling his birth name. Every scene he relived was a scene of torture, of physical or emotional abuse, of despair. Nothing Chanyeol did could pull him into reality, which seemed to indicate that Minseok had been right - Kris could only be saved on the anniversary of his death.

Chanyeol was pretty sure he was watching the memory of Kris’s last days, and honestly, he was having trouble imagining how he was going to talk Kris out of killing himself. His situation was difficult enough to watch; Chanyeol had no idea how it would feel to _experience_. He wasn’t certain he wouldn’t have made the same choice, in Kris’s place.

On top of all that, even if Chanyeol was able to pull Kris out, he might have only _minutes_ before Kris’s spirit faded. By this point he’d figured out that the grandfather clock was stopped at 6:02 because that was the exact time that Kris had died, and therefore, the exact time that Kris’s spirit would be completely safe. But on November 6, the sun was scheduled to rise at 6:06.

Four minutes with the man he’d fallen for. That was all he was going to get.

He tried to prepare himself for that, tried to prepare himself for the scene, but what could he prepare? He had no clue what he was about to walk into.

So, on Tuesday night as the sun was going down, Chanyeol climbed the tower with all of the supplies he could think that he might need, and settled on the bed to wait, with the best of intentions. But it was an unusually peaceful night, the house quieter than it had been in weeks, and Chanyeol didn’t realize he’d drifted off until something startled him awake.

He jerked upright, heart hammering. What woke him? Had he missed it?!

Then, he heard it - the distinctive, awful screech of the bookcase in the study, the one he’d never gotten around to WD-40-ing. Chanyeol leapt from the bed and raced down the stairs.

The bookcase was standing open, but there was something very wrong with the light that filtered through. It seemed faded, greyish, like it was made of fog more than actual light, and Chanyeol found that he couldn’t pass over the threshold into the room. When he tried to force the issue, his limbs refused him. Something was keeping him out.

Kris was in the room, but for the first time, he wasn’t alone. Several ghostly men were in there with him - two holding him by the arms, two bringing in a pallet, and the last was Lord Jung himself, instantly recognizable from his portrait.

“Yifan!” Chanyeol yelled. “Wu Yifan!” He tried making noise, stamping his feet, but he already was fairly certain it was no use. Whatever was about to happen, it was what had caused Kris to kill himself, and Chanyeol had the terrible feeling that he was going to have to watch every second of it if he wanted to have a chance in hell of stopping Kris later.

When he realized what the pallet was bearing, Chanyeol gasped audibly. Jessica was lain upon it, completely unconscious; her head lolled as the two servants set her onto the large, heavy desk.

Kris yanked on his captors, struggling. “What have you done?!” he shouted.

Jung looked at him, cocking an eyebrow. “She is only asleep,” he said, his voice nasally and a little taunting. Chanyeol was already predisposed to hate him, but that voice made him hate the man even more. “Do you think that I would harm my own daughter?”

Barking out an awful, grating laugh, Kris yanked his arm again, trying to pull away. It didn’t escape Chanyeol’s notice that the two men holding Kris were considerably larger than the rest of the men in the room. “ _You?_ You would poison your entire family if there was any gain at all to be had,” Kris snapped. “I’m not entirely convinced you didn’t murder your own _wife._ ”

“Hold your tongue,” Jung snapped, “or I will cut it out.”

“No you won’t,” Kris retorted immediately. “So long as I have not named an heir, you need me alive and communicative.” He cocked his head. “How would you explain to a magistrate how I suddenly lost my tongue while under your care, hmm?”

Jung sneered. “Unfortunately true, but not for long. This charade will end tonight, in one way or another.” He motioned. The two men holding Kris frog-marched him forward, and one of the other men, the only one of the four servants who was smirking instead of stone-faced, stepped up to Jung’s side.

Kris was pushed right up against the desk, his hips shoved painfully into the wood between Jessica’s lax feet. “What are you -”

Reaching out, Jung grabbed Kris by the chin and forced his head around. “I have asked you politely,” he said, in tones soft and dangerous. “I have asked you repeatedly. I have told you a dozen times, that you only need to do one thing, to make me happy.” Chanyeol couldn’t see Kris’s face from this angle, but he could see Kris’s body stiffening. “I am done asking. You will give my daughter a child before the end of tonight.”

Chanyeol’s jaw dropped. His hand flew over his mouth, horror seeping into his mind at the realization of what, exactly, Jung’s goal had been.

He wanted a grandchild, so that he could use the child to take over Kris’s fortune.

Chanyeol wasn’t too well-versed in older laws, but he was pretty sure than inheritances were meant to go to blood children. Once there was a grandchild, Jung would no longer need either Kris _or_ Jessica in order to get what he wanted. He would get rid of them somehow, and manage the trading empire in the child’s name.

Clearly, all of this had occurred to Kris as well, because he spat in Jung’s face. “My answer is the same as it has always been. Go to hell.”

Jung backhanded him, almost casually. “No, I’m afraid you do not understand. You see, if you cannot give my daughter a child tonight - _now_ \- then Joowon here will do it.” He gestured to the servant next to him, who smiled cruelly. “No one will ever know the difference… not even Jessica.”

Chanyeol hadn’t thought it was possible to be more horrified.

He was wrong.

Kris hadn’t moved. He was frozen, and Chanyeol still couldn’t see his face, a small mercy. He was pretty sure he did not want to know what those particular emotions looked like on Kris’s features.

“I see we understand each other at last,” Jung said.

“You are a monster,” Kris said, and he sounded so small, so lost, and simultaneously so, _so_ furious that Chanyeol winced and had to stop himself from pulling away. “You are forcing me to _rape your daughter._ ”

Eyebrows raised. “You are her husband,” Jung said, as it if was obvious, as if Kris was an idiot for suggesting otherwise. “Moreover, she is your wife. This is her duty, and yours, and nothing more. I know you will not be harsh with her, and so I pray that you will do the right thing, for her sake.” He glanced at the servant. “Joowon, I fear, may not be so delicate. It is your choice.”

He smiled, and reached out to run his hand over his daughter’s hair. Then, he nodded to the servants, and left, turning to wisps of nothing before he even made it to the door, leaving Kris and the servants staring at each other.

The scene kept going, but once Chanyeol realized that Kris was going to do it - of course he was, he really had no choice, not if he wanted to prevent Jessica from being hurt worse than she already was - he put his back to the wall, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and tried not to listen. He wouldn’t leave, _couldn’t_ leave, but he wasn’t going to watch, either.

Bad enough that the four servants stood there and watched.

It went on for an age, and Chanyeol was feeling more than a little queasy, by the time he heard a cut-off, stifled moan and the creaking of the desk stopped. He got to his feet, worried that something important or unexpected would happen, and risked looking into the study.

He’d looked too soon. Kris was only just getting off of Jessica, the juncture of their bodies mostly hidden from view by their clothes, which no one had bothered to take off, just pushed out of the way. Jessica’s skirts fell back down, but not before Chanyeol had gotten an eyeful of skin he hadn’t meant to see.

Wincing, he looked away, but even as he did so his mind processed what he had seen, and he frowned. The angle was all wrong, and ...Kris’s cock hadn’t looked wet? With Jessica’s skirts arranged the way they were, the others wouldn’t have been able to see it, but Chanyeol was on the opposite side of the room.

His eyes widened. “He faked it,” he realized. “You sly bastard, you _faked_ it!” Shit, that took _balls_ , taking a risk like that with _four men_ watching. If he’d gotten caught…

But he hadn’t. Straightening his clothes, Kris drew himself up to his full height and glared hatefully at the four servants. “You may report to your master that I have done my _duty,_ ” he spat, his voice trembling with anger. All around the room, the bookshelves shuddered, and Chanyeol jumped. “Take her back to her rooms, she should rest.”

He turned, and marched for the bookcase. As he did so, the four servants and Jessica faded away into nothing, as if they only existed when Kris was looking at them. Chanyeol frowned, but he didn’t have the chance to ponder that, because Kris walked right through him, chilling him to the core.

The bookcase slammed shut in Chanyeol’s face, locking him in.

For a moment, Chanyeol panicked. He’d never closed the bookcase while he was on this side of it before - was there a latch? Could he get it open again, or was he completely trapped?!

Then, Chanyeol realized it didn’t matter. Kris was _here,_ and it was already after five in the morning. He had a little under an hour to convince Kris not to kill himself, and after what he’d just seen, he had a feeling it was going to take some serious convincing.

When he climbed the stairs, Chanyeol found Kris in the library on the third floor. He was staring at a sketchbook, his expression as blank as the page in front of him.

“Wu Yifan?” Chanyeol called.

No response. Kris picked up a pen and started to write, and Chanyeol came and looked over his shoulder.

It was a suicide note, and moreover, it was a _will,_ bequeathing everything Kris owned to Jessica and Jessica alone. Kris’s hand was shaking so badly, he could barely keep the pen steady, but eventually he finished, signed, and tore the page out, taking it up the stairs with him.

Chanyeol followed. Kris set the letter on his bedside table, then sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, his blank expression began to crumble. He hid his face in his hands and started to sob.

His heart pounding so hard he felt like he might puke it up, Chanyeol sat down next to him. This was it. This was the part of the scene that played out every night, and Chanyeol’s last chance.

He pulled out his knife, cut his hand, and called Kris’s name, his real name.

Kris looked up at him, tear tracks on his face but recognition in his eyes. Swallowing, he reached out, and took Chanyeol’s hand. Long fingers entwined with Chanyeol’s own, and for the first time, Kris became _real,_ his heat radiating up Chanyeol’s side and his weight sinking into the mattress.

Kris turned his head into Chanyeol’s shoulder, curled his other hand into the sleeve of Chanyeol’s shirt, and completely broke down.

Chanyeol held him, blinking through his own tears, his mind racing. He wanted just to hold Kris, his instincts were screaming at him to comfort, but should he be doing something else? Should they be talking, or should he be going to get the razor and throwing it out the window?

In the end, he let Kris cry, because it felt shitty to do anything else. Holding him felt less strange than it logically should; they fit together well.

Kris’s tears eventually slowed, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re here to stop me,” he said, “but I have to do it, Chanyeol. I have to.”

Chanyeol’s heart lurched painfully. “No,” he said. “You _don’t_ have to. You’ve been doing this every night for two hundred years, Kris, _please_. Just this once.”

Shaking his head, Kris sighed, shaky. “It is the only thing I can do,” he murmured. “Jung has trapped me, in all ways. I cannot leave, I cannot fight, and every time I try to do anything to stop it, it all just gets worse. She’s suffering because of me.” Chanyeol didn’t really know what to say to that, because as far as he could see, it was true. “Worse, she’ll wake up tomorrow and her father will tell her what I’ve done, what he thinks that I have done. She will hate me.” Kris’s expression crumpled. “She _should_ hate me. _I_ hate me.”

“But you didn’t do it,” Chanyeol pointed out. “You did everything you could to protect her, Kris, I _saw_ that.”

“Not everything,” Kris murmured. “As long as I am alive, my Jessie is in danger. If I die, she’ll be safe from him. He’ll have no reason to hurt her.” He shook his head. “It’s all I can do. The only recourse I have left.”

Chanyeol frowned. “But, Kris,” he said, “that isn’t true.”

Kris looked up at him, red-eyed. “What? Of course it is.”

“No, it isn’t. You left her behind, and she died in agony anyway.” It felt shitty to say it, but it was the only argument Chanyeol could find. “You killing yourself doesn’t save her. It _didn’t_ save her.”

Searching his eyes, Kris said, “You’re lying. You have to be lying. I don’t believe it.”

Did he really not know? How could that be? “Kris… Jessica died only a few years after you did. She wasted away, and she was so, so sad.”

Kris shook his head. “No. That’s just the story that Jung made up, the accounts that made it into history books. It can’t be true.” He sounded desperate.

“But it is,” Chanyeol said. “Jessica’s ghost is always crying.”

Silence.

“What do you mean, Jessica’s _ghost?_ ”

Wait. What? “You haven’t seen her?” Chanyeol asked. And then, he realized, “Oh… oh my god. She only appears at this time of the year, doesn’t she? Only when the house is so strong that you’re trapped reliving your past. You wouldn’t have been _able_ to go see her.” He took Kris’s hand and stood. “Come on, you need to go see her.”

Kris looked back at the nightstand drawer. “But -”

“Kris.” Chanyeol took both of his hands, and crouched in front of him. “I know that I have ulterior motives here, but please, _please_ just trust me.”

Exhaling slowly, Kris considered, and then finally nodded. Smiling encouragingly, Chanyeol stood again, and pulled Kris to his feet.

So strange, to feel him there as a real presence at his side, and not a very handsome bank of fog.

They went down the stairs, and Kris showed Chanyeol how to open the bookcase from this side. “He would disable this,” he said, “and lock me in the tower for days, sometimes weeks.”

Chanyeol pursed his lips. “If he wasn’t already dead,” he muttered, “I’d be tempted to do the job myself.”

“You may yet get the chance.”

They crossed the house, with Chanyeol leading the way. The sky was already beginning to lighten outside, reminding Chanyeol that his time was limited.

There were flashes of movement along the way, too. At first, Chanyeol thought the house was messing with him, but then he realized what the flashes were. Out of the corners of his eyes only, figures followed them, peering through doorways and watching from the ends of halls. They were never there when he looked directly at them, but he caught impressions of robes and hanboks, short hair, long hair, bell-bottoms.

The ghosts of the young men the manor had taken were watching. Waiting.

“No pressure,” Chanyeol muttered, as they reached the west wing stairs. The ladder was still there from the last time Chanyeol had gone up, and he motioned Kris up it.

Kris went. He was strong, but a little clumsy, clearly unused to having to contort himself around broken flooring or over railings, possible out of practice at having a body at all. Chanyeol tried not to find it endearing, and failed.

He’d nearly forgotten how injured he himself was in all this commotion, and got a rough reminder when he went to pull himself up over the railing and both his shoulders started screaming at him. Kris ended up having to help him, which was a tiny bit embarrassing, but he hardly had the time to worry about that now.

When Chanyeol opened the trapdoor, Kris’s eyes widened. “I forgot that this was here,” he said wonderingly. “It was in the plans, but I never intended to use it for anything but storage.”

Chanyeol went up first, just to make certain Jessica was there. She was, the same as always, so he swallowed, gestured for Kris, and retreated to a corner of the room to watch.

The expression on Kris’s face when he saw Jessica was hard to describe, and harder to witness. Kris approached carefully, clearly wary, and knelt in front of her.

“Sooyeon,” he called. “Jung Sooyeon.”

Jessica’s head raised, the first response to anything that Chanyeol had seen her give. Her eyes focused on his face, and shades of a dozen emotions swept over her own.

“Kris,” she whispered. “But… you’re dead.”

His smile was so sad, it brought tears to Chanyeol’s eyes. “We both are, my love,” he murmured.

Jessica frowned, and looked around. She spotted Chanyeol, but it seemed her eyes got caught in several other places as well, as if she was seeing more than just Chanyeol. “So we are,” she said, and looked back at Kris, with growing understanding in her eyes. “You have finally found me.”

“I’m sorry,” Kris said, expression crumpled. “I didn’t realize you were here. I would have come sooner.” He looked around. “This room is your prison.” It wasn’t a question, but a realization.

“Yes. It is where I died.”

Kris’s lip curled angrily. “And even in death, your father traps us both.”

A blink. Jessica focused on him, her head tilting. “Is that what you think?” she asked. “Kris, my father put me here, and kept me until I died. But he is not holding me now. He’s gone.”

Kris frowned, obviously confused. “What?”

Jessica giggled, high-pitched and ugly. “He is gone. He died peacefully in his bed and his soul flew, Kris, he is _not here_. He’s not the one imprisoning spirits.” She pinned him with her gaze. “ _You_ are.”

The room was so still, Chanyeol was afraid for a moment that something in reality had broken, or that the house had literally frozen. Then, Kris shook his head, sharply. “No.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Kris,” Jessica said, in the familiar tones of someone who was very used to reminding him that he was an idiot. “It is _your_ house. _Your_ death. _You_ are the one who cannot let me go.”

Kris stood abruptly, and turned away from her, his hands digging into his hair. The floor started to tremble, and Chanyeol braced himself in the corner. “ _No._ He’s here, I know he is here!”

“He is _gone_. He died a very wealthy, well-respected man who never had to answer for his crimes, and _I can’t stand that,_ but it is the _truth!_ ”

Chanyeol yelped and jumped as the wall he was pressed against suddenly heated under one hand, and chilled under the other. Blood was dripping from the ceiling down the walls, freezing on one side and steaming on the other, and the etched glass of the window was rattling ominously.

He stumbled across the room and took Kris’s shoulders in his hands. Kris tried to jerk away, but Chanyeol held him, more for his own stability than anything else as the room started to sway. “Kris! Kris, the house, it’s responding to your emotions. You have to calm down!”

Wide eyes, more brown than black now that he was opaque, stared at him in horror. Chanyeol cupped Kris’s face in his hand, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. His skin was frigid, belying his flush. “Breathe with me, okay? Breathe in.” He inhaled, holding Kris’s gaze and gesturing with his other hand. “And out.” He exhaled.

It took a few breaths, but eventually, Kris started to follow along. The temperature fluctuations in the room calmed, and after a minute or so, the blood started to fade, as well. Kris himself was shaky, but the room was no longer shaking.

“That was well done,” Jessica said quietly.

Chanyeol flashed her a sheepish smile. “It’s not that much different from what happens in my head when I have a panic attack,” he admitted. “Except, you know. Real. And not in my head.”

Kris heaved a breath, clutching into Chanyeol’s shirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Baby.” Chanyeol pulled him close, ran a hand over his hair. “It’s okay. I know how it feels, or, at least, some of how it might feel.” He braced himself. “But I think Jessica is right. Your anger is justified, believe me, but it’s holding you hostage.” When the walls didn’t immediately start shaking again, Chanyeol pulled back and looked Kris in the eyes. “You have to let it go.”

Kris’s eyes squeezed shut, and tears leaked from them. “How?” he asked. “It’s all I have. It’s all I _am._ ”

“No it isn’t,” Chanyeol told him firmly. “You’re sweet, and curious, and a really good artist.”

Kris laughed. “I was terrible,” he admitted. “I learned to draw after I died.”

“Oh.” Chanyeol blinked. “Well, there! Doesn’t that prove that you’re more than your anger?”

“I hurt you so many times,” Kris realized, horrified. “I nearly killed you. I’ve murdered so many people.”

“I don’t think it was _you_ , not really,” Chanyeol argued. “I think your anger and bitterness and shame became something else, something that soaked into the house and infected it. You weren’t in control of it anymore, you were a victim, just like everyone else.” He pressed his lips to Kris’s forehead, and Kris deflated in his arms, melting into the touch. “Take it back. Breathe it in. Then let it go.”

A chilly touch at their sides made them look up. Jessica was standing beside them, waifish and withered, her nearly skeletal hand resting on Kris’s arm. “Please, Yifan,” Jessica murmured. “I’m so tired. Please let me go.”

Kris looked like he was barely holding himself together. “I love you,” he gasped. “I’ve always loved you.”

“I know,” Jessica assured him, her expression softening. “I’ve never doubted it, I promise. But it’s time.”

She waited, watching him. Kris nodded, and closed his eyes, and breathed.

For long, long moments, nothing happened. Chanyeol grimaced - was it even going to work? Anger was a hard thing to let go, especially old anger; it wasn’t the kind of thing one could normally just _drop_.

Then, Jessica sighed, and faded away. Her hand dropped to her side, and her wedding ring slipped from her finger and fell to the floor with a clatter.

Kris collapsed to his knees. Chanyeol followed, gathering him up in his arms. Faintly, in the distance, Chanyeol heard the grandfather clock chime. Six AM.

“Please tell me that you are not still planning to kill yourself,” Chanyeol whispered.

Kris laughed, watery. “No,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Chanyeol sat back onto his hip, and pulled Kris down. Pliant, clearly exhausted, Kris laid down on his side, his head on Chanyeol’s thigh, and Chanyeol brushed his fingers through Kris’s hair.

Reaching out, Kris picked up Jessica’s wedding ring, which was left behind on the floor. “It’s strange,” he said. “This was the one room of which I didn’t have any awful memories. Maybe that’s why I forgot it was here.” He tried to put the ring on his pinky finger, but it was so small, he couldn’t get it past his first knuckle. “Or maybe I just didn’t want to face her, deep down.”

The sky was almost light now, softly filtered sunlight bathing them both. Chanyeol brushed Kris’s hair back from his face. “Do you still have regrets?” he asked softly.

Kris snorted. “Regrets? I have _dozens_ of regrets. I regret _everything._ ”

Chanyeol blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. Maybe he should have been.

“I regret allowing Jung to bully us into getting married. I regret that I didn’t throw him out of my house the moment he arrived - I almost did, did you know that? I regret that I was too wrapped up in my work and Jessie to notice him dismissing or executing all of my staff.” Kris exhaled, shaky. “I regret that I was too ashamed, too afraid to really fight back. I regret killing myself. I regret that I didn’t do it sooner, too, as if _that_ makes a lick of sense.”

Weaving his fingers through Kris’s, Chanyeol remained silent.

“I regret that it took my death for me to find the time to learn art, and music. How could I have been so blind to these things in life?” He grimaced. “I regret that I never finished the house the way I intended to, and that my presence cursed it for two centuries. I regret every poor soul that I trapped here. They were happy, they were _alive,_ and some part of me couldn’t _stand_ that.” He looked up. “I regret that I never really got to be with you.”

Chanyeol was trying really hard, for Kris’s sake, to hold himself together, but that broke him. With tears welling in his eyes, he leaned down, curled in, and kissed Kris on the lips, exactly the way he’d wanted to for ages.

Surprised, Kris didn’t react at first, and the angle was sort of sideways and awkward. Then, he sat up, turned over, and pulled Chanyeol in, kissing him back, kissing him _hard_.

Too soon, he broke away, resting his forehead against Chanyeol’s. “No,” he gasped. “I don’t want to go.”

His stomach flopping, Chanyeol glanced at his watch. 6:05, one minute to sunrise. He pulled Kris close, hugging him fiercely.

“I’ll never forget you,” he sobbed. “Never. I promise.”

“No,” Kris cried, “no! It’s not _fair!_ ”

“ _Kris -_ ”

“My life was stolen from me before I was even a third of the way through it,” Kris snapped. “My death was lost to my own poisonous anger. My entire existence has been a _waste._ ”

“No, it hasn’t, I promise you it hasn’t.” Chanyeol’s heart was breaking, shattering on the floor.

Long arms crossed over Chanyeol’s back. Long fingers clenched into his shirt. Kris buried his face in Chanyeol’s shoulder and snarled, “I’m not going.”

“Oh my God,” Chanyeol whispered.

“Don’t let me go, Chanyeol, please, I don’t want to go,” Kris begged.

Chanyeol pulled him closer, holding on tightly. “I won’t let go,” he promised.

White light filled the room, and Chanyeol tried to hold on. But when it cleared, Chanyeol was alone.

Curling up in the center of the room, Chanyeol buried his face in his knees and cried.

 

X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X^X

 

It was a good hour before Chanyeol could bring himself to move. He took several deep breaths, wiped his tears on his sleeve, reminded himself that he was lucky to even be _alive,_ and went back down the stairs.

The front doors were unlocked, and touchable. Chanyeol opened them wide and stepped outside, just to be certain. He was free. Whatever had been in the house, whether it really was Kris’s anger or part of his spirit or something else entirely, it was letting him go.

Actually, he was pretty sure whatever it was was gone entirely. The house was silent in a way it hadn’t been, _ever_. No creaky pipes, no settling floorboards, no wind whistling through gaps in the windows. Chanyeol had gotten so used to tuning all those noises out that it seemed creepier now that it was quiet and empty than it did when it was haunted.

Chanyeol sat right in the doorway, butt on the welcome mat and legs stretched out onto the front stoop, and stared out at the lawn, wondering what the _hell_ he was going to do now.

Could he stay here, surrounded by so many reminders of everything that happened? Or should he just sell the place, let someone else restore it, and… what? Move on, like it never happened at all?

His phone rang. Startled, Chanyeol yanked it from his pocket, and answered.

“Amber. Hey.”

_“Hey, nothing, you asshole! I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for a week, and then all of a sudden I have all these texts and missed calls from you! Where have you been?!”_

Her familiar tone made him smile, just a little. “Sorry about that. There was some kind of issue with the network here, I haven’t been able to call or send texts. Guess they must have gotten it fixed.”

Amber kept yelling at him, sounding relieved, and Chanyeol murmured reassurances and let himself just bask in her voice. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally, too exhausted to do anything but make affirmative humming noises.

He should probably go to bed, honestly. Sleeping for a week sounded like a good plan. Groaning, Chanyeol got to his feet, and turned to go back inside.

He stopped in the doorway, wide-eyed.

Kris was standing at the top of the grand staircase, hands braced on the railing, watching him.

Chanyeol blinked. “I’m hallucinating,” he said aloud.

_“What? Yeol, are you okay?”_

Shit, he’d forgotten he was still on the phone.

Kris smiled at him. “No,” he said, “you aren’t.”

“...Who is that? Is someone with you?”

Shit. Oh, _shit._ “You heard that?” Chanyeol asked, aware he sounded like an idiot and not caring. “You can _hear_ him?”

_“Dude. Like. If you’re in trouble, if there’s someone there with you, just say ‘yes,’ okay?”_

Chanyeol barked a laugh, his feet moving forward on their own, his eyes not leaving Kris’s face. He was solid, not translucent, and seemed to almost be glowing golden tan in the early morning light. “I’ll call you back,” he said, and hung up. “Kris - _how_ \- ”

Starting down the stairs, Kris shrugged. His footsteps seemed too heavy, too loud - Chanyeol had never heard his steps make noise before. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I don’t remember much of what happened on the other side. I know I was arguing. A _lot._ ” He reached the bottom stair, and stopped. “I can be extraordinarily hard-headed when I want something, you know.”

Still moving forward, Chanyeol had to remind himself to breathe. “And you wanted to stay.”

“I did. I do.” Kris caressed the newel post at the bottom of the stair railing, familiar and fond. “So I suppose I _am_. Staying, I mean.”

Reaching out, Chanyeol hesitantly touched Kris’s shoulder. He was warm under his ragged Victorian shirt, maybe even a little sweaty. He felt solid, real. Alive.

His eyes met Kris’s, deep brown shining almost gold in the direct sunlight. “I want to cry,” he said stupidly, “but I don’t think I actually have any tears left in me. Sorry.”

Kris _laughed._ Full out, throwing his head back, joyful. His hands found Chanyeol’s and squeezed, and Chanyeol did start to cry then, hiccuping sobs that came out sounding more like laughter of his own.

“You’re here,” he said. “You’re alive, you’re here, you’re _here with me,_ oh my _God_ \- ” Surging forward, Chanyeol kissed Kris as hard as he’d ever kissed anyone, almost throwing himself into Kris’s arms. Kris caught him, carefully keeping his right arm up high enough that he didn’t touch the stitches in Chanyeol’s side, and shit, _shit,_ could this really be real?

“I’m here,” Kris said, when they broke apart. “To hell with dying, I did that for almost two hundred years. I’m going to _live,_ Chanyeol.” He cupped Chanyeol’s face, wiped his tears with his thumbs. “I want to live this life with you. May I?”

Chanyeol’s heart was going to explode into a million messy, rainbow-colored, sparkly pieces. “I did warn you that I’m terrible at relationships, right?” he joked.

“Apparently I am terrible at handling my own emotions,” Kris said dryly, “so it may be a rocky road all around.” Chanyeol chuckled, and Kris’s expression softened. “Still. I want to try?”

Nodding, Chanyeol straightened up. “I do too,” he said. “I think maybe… maybe I can get it right this time.”

Kris smiled, and leaned in, kissing him gently. “I won’t ask you for sex,” he promised.

Chanyeol laughed. “I think that, right there, makes you a far better fit for me than anyone I’ve tried to be with.” He cocked his head. “Do you want to stay here, or do you want to move somewhere else? I can sell the house, we can start over somewhere entirely new.”

Humming, Kris thought about it. “I meant for the manor to be filled with love,” he said, “and it was, for a few years. If you are willing… I’d like to reclaim it. I get another chance, it should too.”

Breaking out into a grin, Chanyeol said, “Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.”

“There is one more thing, though,” Kris said, very seriously.

Chanyeol blinked, his heart tripping. “Oh?”

“Yes. Very important.” Kris turned and took Chanyeol’s shoulders in his hands. “Your friend. Amber?” Chanyeol nodded, wide-eyed. “How does she make her hair that color? I want _my_ hair to be that color.”

Stunned, Chanyeol’s jaw dropped. Kris’s lips twitched, and Chanyeol burst into laughter.

“Yeah,” he said between giggles, “we can dye your hair. And anything else you want. _Anything._ ” 

Smiling helplessly, Kris pulled him close and buried his face in Chanyeol’s neck. Chanyeol rested his forehead on Kris’s shoulder and just giggled, overwhelmed with giddy happiness.

When his giggles finally died down, Chanyeol pulled back a little. “Hey,” he realized, “it’s your birthday, right?”

“I suppose it is,” Kris murmured. “After two hundred years, I’m finally twenty-seven.”

“Happy birthday,” Chanyeol said with a smile. “What do you want for your present?”

Kris pulled him close and kissed his forehead. “I got what I wanted,” he said. “I got a second chance.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **the end.** see the next chapter for notes and thanks!


	10. author's notes and extras

**A huge, huge, HUGE thank you to my husband and RL friends who listened to me rant, to Cata for betaing this for me and to Ryan for test reading.** I would never have gotten this monster completed without you guys.

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This thing was supposed to be a silly, fluffy little ghost story involving Chanyeol being completely oblivious to the fact that he was living in a haunted mansion, and somehow turned into what is probably the darkest and goriest thing I have ever written. This is what happens when you let your stories write themselves, I guess.

I didn’t decide how I was going to end this story until around the time I finished Chapter 7. Other candidates for how the story could have ended include:  
**The Dark Ending:** Chanyeol fails, dies, and becomes a part of the manor.  
**The Bittersweet Ending:** Chanyeol succeeds, but Kris willingly goes into the light after saying his goodbyes. Chanyeol moves on with his life, knowing that Kris is finally at rest.  
**The _Really_ Dark But Kind Of Romantic Ending:** Chanyeol fails, but doesn’t immediately die. Knowing that he is doomed, he kills himself in such a way that he can have his last moments be with Kris, replayed periodically for eternity.  
**The Surprise Reincarnation Ending:** Chanyeol succeeds and Kris moves on, but a few months later, someone who is clearly Kris’s reincarnation comes into Chanyeol’s life.  
**The Super Cracky Self-Indulgent Ending:** Not only does Chanyeol succeed and Kris remain in the land of the living, but ALL of the ghosts are returned to life, and they all live happily ever after in that big mansion.

I also heavily considered writing multiple endings and letting each reader choose which one you wanted to consider canon, but as I got closer to the end of the story I realized there was really only one ending that felt right, so I’ll save the multiple-endings idea for another time.

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At the request of several readers, **I sketched out Dragon Manor** and marked where the ghosts appeared. Some ghosts are marked in more than one place, but it should be pretty obvious why that is. You can view the first floor [here](https://drive.google.com/open?id=0ByPaf2DSsSrRQ2QwWmdpcDUzV1k), and the upper floors [here](https://drive.google.com/open?id=0ByPaf2DSsSrRcGpIQzllamtQcXM).

Dragon Manor was based on this house design, though I removed the entire basement level and changed or simplified a few things.

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 **A few notes:**  
Kris’s father and grandfather originally began to collect their fortunes as tradesman selling all sorts of Chinese goods to the British. At some point during Kris’s father’s time, he switched his focus to two trades only: the export of Chinese tea to the British, and the import of British opium to the Chinese. These two products were in such high demand, Lord Wu began making huge amounts of money, very quickly.

The first Opium War began only two years after Kris’s death, meaning that the trading empire Lord Jung had wangled his way into suddenly dropped in value by quite a bit. Still, he already had enough money that it barely mattered.

It is extremely unlikely - though not impossible - that a Chinese son would have studied in Britain at the time Kris supposedly did, and even less likely that a Korean daughter would have. Asian people definitely visited Britain, but it was rare that they stuck around for any length of time; the first Chinese-born person to become a naturalized British citizen was only about a decade before Kris’s supposed time studying. So this one requires a little suspension of disbelief.

Dragon Manor is not accurate to any time period or culture. It’s a completely anachronistic amalgamation of styles.

The west wing of the manor was always guest suites. The east wing of the manor was originally stables on the first floor and servant’s quarters on the second; it was converted into a garage and more guest suites in between Baekhyun’s death and Jongdae’s, in the 1930’s.

The gun safe is just outside the first floor west wing entrance, hidden at the back of a small storage closet; it was put in when the wing was renovated in the 1930’s. It was within easy reach when the tiger was chasing Chanyeol during Lu Han’s scene, but Chanyeol didn’t know it was there.

All of the historical residents of the house knew that the west tower was there, and many of them figured out how to get into it, but they never really felt the need to explore it for some mysterious reason that _totally_ didn’t have anything to do with Kris’s spirit wanting that space to himself. The only people who ever went up into the tower more than once were Junmyeon, Baekhyun, and Minseok, and whenever someone would mess up Kris’s stuff, he would put it right back again, keeping the rooms exactly as they were when he died.

The reason that the house couldn’t do much to affect the new addition off of the kitchen (the family room, sun room, and breakfast room) was simply because Kris hadn’t been made manifest since the addition was built. If Chanyeol hadn’t broken the cycle, eventually those rooms would have been pulled under the house’s influence as well.

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If you have more questions, you can find me over at my [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/unnie_bee) or [askfm](https://ask.fm/unnie_bee), or on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/unnie_bee) or [tumblr](http://unnie-bee.tumblr.com/). 

Thank you for reading, my lovely darlings, I will see you next time!


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